


Lighthouse

by glittercake



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternative Universe - Doctors, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky gets therapy, Dissociation, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, First Kiss, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Gaslighting, Getting Together, Graphic descriptions of violence, Hand Jobs, Injuries following abuse, Jealousy, Leaving abusive relationship, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mutual Pining, Non descriptive patient death, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Recovery, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Verbal Abuse, Waxing poetic about Sam Wilson because he's great, abusive/controlling relationship, friendships, sambucky endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 50,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21863803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittercake/pseuds/glittercake
Summary: This guy’s trouble. Bucky knows that in his bones. It’s not bad trouble, is the problem, it’s good. Sam is so goddamn inherently good and if Bucky even touches that with a ten foot pole—fuck if he even looks at it—it’ll turn to shit.He can’t afford another move to yet another city because his colleagues started recognizing Brock’s fist prints on his face.But Sam is a ridiculously bright glowing light, a beacon, and Bucky goes toward it like that idiotic moth to the flame.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 425
Kudos: 610





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guys. Guys... 
> 
> First things first: The abuse does NOT take place between Sam and Bucky.
> 
> This fic has totally taken me out of my comfort bubble and I've loved writing something so different from my usual themes. I needed to push my boundaries a little and see what I could do beyond fluff and smut etc, challenge myself to go a little darker. 
> 
> And it is pretty dark in a very real sense. Please opt out now if any of the tags might trigger or otherwise harm you. I've taken care to deal with these topics as best I can, but they are heavy and uncomfortable. I care deeply about mental health and am cautioning you to please be safe while reading.
> 
> If you guys have any questions or need any warnings or explanations or even a heads up for what the scenes may contain, please send me an ask or dm on [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/) I'm happy to explain/clarify where needed.
> 
> A quick thanks to my dearest Sofia for holding my hand through this, spiraling about ideas, talking some scenes over with me and just generally being great and coddling my soft ass. And also yelling at me to stop being soft. You're average, I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for physical partner violence, and attempted non-con.

The thing about working with a bunch of doctors and nurses is that nothing goes unnoticed. 

It's late, some ungodly hours of the morning. The hospital is quiet save for the ominous buzz of the fluorescents down the hallway and the odd cough coming from a ward. 

Kelly, the night nurse down at the lab, stares at Bucky instead of giving him Mr. Roland's blood work. 

More specifically, she's staring at his foundation-blotched eye. He did a pretty garbage job, although there ain't much one can do to conceal the horrid shades of purple and black your skin turns after a hit like last night's. 

Brock usually doesn't go for the face anymore, he's learned his lesson, and it's Bucky's fault for struggling in the first place, for antagonizing something already so fraught.

He's torn between staying quiet for her to draw her own conclusions, or spinning some sad old story. 

Finally, she squishes her gum between her teeth, and says, "Green covers red. Yellow covers blue. Nude goes over that." in this total nonchalant, airy, gum popping manner. 

Truthfully Bucky's thankful she's not prying and pushing. And that's pretty helpful advice. 

"Thanks. And I get this from…"

She waves, finally handing over the bloodwork, "Oh, any drugstore, cheapest will do in a pinch, but L.A Girl's where it's at."

"Got it." He gives her a quick, affiliative smile and gets ready to go. 

"Hey, what happened anyway?" She blows another gum bubble.

He's got a number of excuses lined up but settles on, "Drunk guy at the bar picked a fight." and he manages to sound pretty flippant about something so goddamn close to the truth.

Kelly nods and carries on with her paperwork, "Ain't those the worst, huh." 

He feels shitty for lying, he always does, but he thinks the only thing worse than Brock beating the shit out of him on a good night is them having to move cities  _ again _ because he slipped up and let his bruises show. 

So Bucky lies and lies and lies, and avoids everyone in this place come hell or high water—including that super friendly Res who keeps trying to talk to him—and reckons if they don't know him, they can't  _ know.  _

He kind of wishes he was able to fool himself too, but that's hard with the constant never-ending reminders, served hot and mostly unexpected.

The first time it happened, they were at a wedding—Brock's sister—and Bucky could honestly say they'd been happy. Dating just shy of two years, Brock had been talking marriage, kids, buying a place together so they'd be settled by the time Bucky finished med school. It felt fast, but people always said 'when it's right, it's right,' and Brock took good care of him.

They'd all been drinking a little too much, everyone was loud and rowdy, including Bucky, and he ended up dancing with the barman. It was hilarious, really, because neither of them could actually dance so they were laughing as the guy spun Bucky around and around. And it'd been fun until Bucky looked over to where Brock was sitting. 

He had this foreign look on his face Bucky'd never seen before- his mouth in a flat line, no dimples, his eyes hard. Just sitting at the table staring at Bucky, legs spread, his 12th beer balanced on his knee. 

Bucky tried smiling at him, a quick wave, but Brock only pulled his mouth like it was an effort to smile back.

Bucky wondered if he was mad about the dancing, Brock got a little jealous sometimes. Didn't like Bucky ordering their coffee at Starbucks if that Justin guy with the hair was at the counter, but that always struck him as kind of cute, Bucky thought. But surely dancing with a straight guy whose wife was _right there…_ there was nothing to get upset about. 

Still, Brock ignored him for the remainder of the evening, and the car ride home had been exceptionally quiet. 

"You okay?" Bucky asked quietly. He put his hand on Brock's thigh, but he showed absolutely no reaction. Brock just stared out ahead so Bucky though he must be concentrating on the road; he drank too much to really be driving but he refused to spend money for an Uber. And Brock paid for everything while Bucky studied, so he didn't really have a say about expenditure.

Brock didn't switch on any lights when they got home, and Bucky was about to ask why when Brock's fist curled into his hair and jerked Bucky across the threshold. 

"Brock?!" Bucky yelped, but the next thing he knew, he got thrown with enough force that he skid to the other side of the room. His back hit the wall, and he looked up at Brock in utter confusion. 

He remembers it a little like a break in reality as if he was peering into another dimension.

His boyfriend's face gave nothing away, not a frown, not a twitch, not even a glance in Bucky's direction. 

His scalp hurt, the hair probably pulled out, he rubbed at it tentatively as Brock came closer. 

"You have fun tonight?" He finally rumbled, still not meeting Bucky's eyes. 

"We were just danci—" 

Brock kicked him then. Hard and quick, right in the gut, shoes still on, "Huh?? Have fun letting that prick rub up all over you? That feel nice?"

Bucky would have protested that it wasn't at all what happened, but he was trying to catch his breath, holding back the urge to puke at the same time, while his stomach spasmed from the impact. 

Brock's hand was in his hair again, yanking Bucky's face up. His eyes dark, lip curled. "You fucking smell like him." He shoved Bucky's head back down. 

Bucky let out a loud whimper as his head hit the tile, but he froze in place aside from shivering. He tried to make some sort of sense of what just happened, waited for the break in reality to dissolve, looked for logic in what felt like utter mania. 

But there he was, aching, watching Brock walk away and dig another beer out of the fridge. He hoped when he came back he'd have calmed down, but that's the thing, he was  _ so _ calm, his face straight poker brilliance even if his actions were abrupt. 

Bucky didn't even want to think the word 'violent.' He couldn't bring himself to. That would have meant...

When Brock returned, having downed the bottle in less than a minute, he glared down at Bucky, silent for a few moments, and Bucky prayed that he would just go to bed. But Brock said, "See what you made me do. Look at you now." 

Bucky should probably have known that intercepting that conversation with, "I didn't do anything," was the worst thing, he really should have fucking known because Brock snapped and all the calmness from before splintered. 

"Really? You little goddamn whore, from where I was sittin' you were doing _plenty,"_ then he again wrapped his hand in Bucky's hair—same hair he always stroked and braided and tangled between his fingers when he called Bucky 'baby'. He said, "Come on," and dragged him down the hallway as Bucky started crying, begging. "Wanna act like a whore I'll treat you like one." 

"Please, please, no. Babe, baby, no…" Bucky sobbed, trying to grab onto the doorframe, anything, but the more he fought, the more his hair pulled in Brock's hold. He remembers being suddenly overcome with terror, whatever was about to happen in that bedroom would be considerably worse than being tossed across his living room floor. 

Brock wrenched Bucky inside, shoved him down on the bed, and his hair was finally free, but his entire body screamed at him to run. He tried. He shot up, intended to head for the door, but Brock's fist collided with Bucky's cheek and set him right back on the bed. 

Glowing, blinding pain blasted through his head, he felt dizzy, out of it, and then Brock was on top of him busy undoing his belt while warm wetness ran down Bucky's cheek. He's still not sure if it was tears or blood or both. 

"Brock!" Bucky squirmed away from Brock's hands, but he couldn't get away from the stale smell of beer and old cigarettes in his face, Brock's mouth lapping at his neck. By then he was definitely crying, "Please please please stop, please stop… I'm sorry." 

Brock leaned up, looked confused when he saw Bucky's twisted face as if he wasn't sure how they got there or what he'd been doing. 

Bucky sobbed beneath him, "P-please stop, d-don't, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

And it all went quiet. 

Brock got up, looked at Bucky in utter disbelief as he backed out the door.  _ Yeah, _ Bucky thought,  _ it's not you… this isn't you. _ (It was)

That wasn't the man he loved… that wasn't Brock at all. Brock was a friendly guy, he was funny, cracked jokes, he was... a nice guy. (He wasn't)

Bucky thought he probably had some liquor that didn't agree with him. Maybe he was tired; he'd been working hard. Maybe Bucky… perhaps he did act out of line with that guy. He guessed he wouldn't have liked it if Brock acted the fool with some dude in front of everyone either. So maybe...

He got cleaned up, taped up the cut on his cheek, threw the sheets in the wash, and redressed the bed. The living room was quiet when he went to check on Brock. Bucky found him sitting on the couch, head tipped back and eyes shut. 

Bucky sat down beside him, at which Brock's head whipped to him, his eyes dark in the dim light. He opened his legs, patting the space between "C'mere." with the same rough-sweet voice Bucky had always known.

Bucky slid down to the rug and kneeled with his back to Brock, and he slowly started raking his fingers through Bucky's hair. Strand by strand until it was smooth and knot-free before he braided it.

Once he was done, he kissed Bucky's head and they went to bed. Not that Bucky slept a wink that night. He didn't toss and turn though, worried he might wake Brock. He was so thrown by what happened earlier, but when he cried, it stung the cut on his cheek, so he didn't do that either.

He remembers thinking, it was all fine now- with Brock's arm curled around him, face buried in Bucky's neck, breathing deep and steady. He looked really shaken by what he'd done, so Bucky was sure it wouldn't happen again. 

People made mistakes. It wouldn't happen again. 

But it did.

Over and over and over.

Four years later, Bucky's down to covering bruises with makeup and very carefully choosing which eggshells he steps on, on that particular day. He's penniless since Brock doesn't trust him with his own money, and friendless because Brock doesn't trust him near people. He's scared shitless and helpless to do anything about it, with nowhere to go if he did. 

At least he's a doctor now, that counts for something probably.

He realizes he stopped halfway down the hallway and has been staring at the same page in the file Kelly handed him for way longer than he meant to. He shuts it quickly and books it for his ward. 

"Barnes!"

Fuck. It's Super Friendly Res guy.

Bucky turns around, offers a polite enough smile, "Hey," He keeps his head turned away so Wilson won't see the bruise. 

"Couple of the guys are getting pizza up on the roof when the shift ends, wanna join?" 

It's probably the hundredth invite of its kind, and he hates saying no. Hates the way Sam's face drops when declines.

"Uh, got some paperwork to finish. Maybe after this." Lies lies lies.

And there it is, the disappointed face. 

"No problem," Sam smiles, then a little awkwardly says, "We're always eating so… next time."

Bucky can't help but chuckle. "Yeah, next time." 

This only makes Sam look hopeful, which in turn makes Bucky feel like shit.

He thinks they both know he'll never show up there, or stay over for the next shift, or bunk in the on-call rooms like the rest of them do. 

He doesn't have that luxury. Brock says he's got a home for a reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam's POV up next :)  
> Remember to reach out if needed: [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No real warnings for this chapter. Just a mention of minor off-screen character death.

Sam's a Resident at Bay Bridge Memorial, he graduated cum laude both high school and college, passed his third level exam like it was nothing. Give him a Rubix cube he'll solve it in a minute flat; he hardly needs to look at a math problem to know the answer. Steve calls him a goddamn genius, and he probably is, but that's not the point. 

He's got a load of friends too, people like him. He thinks so at least. He's got some kind of connection with everyone he's met, so it totally stumps him when he fails time after time to break the ice with that new Barnes Res who wears a man bun. 

"Why do you care anyway?" Steve asks with a mouth full of bagel, "You like him?" It’s early morning, just before they’re due for their shift. 

Sam yawns and flicks a rolled-up straw paper at his friend, "I like everyone, Rogers. Ain't the point." 

"So, it's because he doesn't like you?" 

Steve’s got that look like he’s about to start some smart ass shit with Sam.

"No! Why? Did he say something?" 

Steve laughs, flicks the paper at Sam, but misses, and it lands in Sharon's hair. They both snicker about it, then Steve says, "Maybe he's anti-social. Some people are just like that." 

Sam sighs and watches Barnes walk through the cafeteria to one of the on-call rooms to have breakfast by himself instead of eating with the rest of them. It's been that way since he joined Bay Bridge Memorial a couple of months ago despite Sam’s numerous attempts to befriend him. 

But Sam's nothing if not persistent. People need people, and this guy doesn't seem to have any people. He’s always alone, he clocks in his shift, does his job, clocks out and disappears. How does anyone go through their day without interacting with others? Steve comforts Sam when he has a shitty day, or when they lose a patient. Who does this guy complain to?

Sam's ma said he's always been this way. He made friends with all the little shy kids in school; he picked out the loners, the weirdos, the kids who got bullied, and he made them his own. He hoarded them, so much so that his ma's backyard was stock full of all the neighborhood's outcasts every year for his birthday. 

He still knows each and every one of them. He still goes to see the ones who live close by, regularly calls the ones who don't, and visits the graves of those who've left. Like Riley.

Riley was his first friend ever. He was the first boy who Sam held hands with, the one who made Sam realize he could think of boys in that way. And even though Riley is long gone—taken much too quickly and far too brutally for such a beautiful soul—he’s a fundamental part of who Sam is today.

All of them are. Sam can't watch someone go through shit, be lonely, act the way Barnes is acting, and not do something about it. He ain't made up that way. And it's a fine line not to be pushy; he walks it very, very delicately. 

"Time's up, loser," Steve says. He chucks the remains of their breakfast in the trash, "Hey Shar," She’s reading a book at the other end of their table. Steve motions to her hair and pulls a face, "Got a little… yeah… where'd that come from, huh?"

Sharon bats at her hair, dislodging the paper, "You're actual children, I swear." she calls after them. And maybe they are because they're cracking up. 

It's Sam's lucky day when they get to the scheduling board, and he's paired with Barnes this week, a win even if they're working the Pit. It’s always the craziest shit coming through those doors.

Barnes is already attending to a young girl's stitches when Sam arrives. 

He starts with the bed next to Barnes' patient, picks up the clipboard, "Hey," 

Barnes jumps then looks a little embarrassed, but he smiles when he turns to greet Sam, "Hey." Although, it's a real stiff smile. Sam's counting it anyway. 

"First time hitting the Pit together, huh?" Sam's checking his patient's vitals. 

Barnes flicks a nervous look at Sam, "Uh, yeah, guess so." he turns back to the little girl, "See, all better honey, didn't even hurt did it?" she shakes her head as he clips the end of the suture. His voice is ragged but soft, kind, and the little girl beams up at him.

"Hey," Sam says to her and leans toward them, "You like caramel milkshakes? This place's got like crazy good caramel shakes. I was gonna get me one—"

“In the morning?!” Barnes stares at Sam with his eyebrows all pulled up high. 

“All the time is milkshake time, Doctor Barnes, you should know this.” 

Barnes shakes his head, but his mouth pulls into a smile- a little better than the first one. 

"With cream and cherries??" the little lady asks all sparkle and wonder. 

"Damn, girl, that's the only kind!" Sam reaches over for a high five, but as he lifts his hand, Barnes ducks abruptly, and his fist curls white around the bed's rail. "Sorry!" Sam says quickly because he thinks maybe he knocked into him. 

"Oh," Barnes rights himself, unwraps his hand, "No, no worries." His smile's suddenly a lot wider, but it ain't reaching his eyes. 

Sam regards him for a moment, "You, uh, want one?"

"A what?" 

"Milkshake."

"Uh." he's considering it, which Sam will note as a tentative win. He also looks around and sucks in a deep breath before he answers, "Sure. Yeah. Yeah, why not."

Sam comes back a couple of minutes later with three milkshakes in a small tray. He hands one over to the girl, Maddie, and watches her entire face go carnival on him. That's the kind of shit he lives for. Her mom agrees to a selfie with their matching milkshakes, and Barnes is watching from the reception desk the entire time. He looks at Sam a little weirdly. Apprehensive.

"You should get in here!" Sam calls to him, but he shakes his head and waves Sam off. 

Not a win, that one.

Later, once Mr. Wallace has been told for the hundredth time that there is absolutely nothing wrong with his liver, and Jess the barista has her steam burn wounds all patched up, Sam finds Barnes catching some fresh air outside, leaning against one of the ambulances. 

He's still sipping on the milkshake from earlier, and Sam catches him pulling a face at it.

"Oh man, is it that bad?" 

This time Barnes seems to answer before really thinking about it, no hesitation or strange looks, "Fuck, this is pure goddamn sugar."

Sam jumps in quickly before they lose momentum again, "Shit's good, though, huh? Can't argue with me."

Barnes bites back a smile, why Sam doesn't know, he's got a mouth made for smiling- inappropriate as that thought is. Sam's not goddamn blind. 

"If by good you mean cavity-inducing, artery-blocking—"

"Yeah, yeah, Professor Wise Ass." Sam leans against the vehicle beside Barnes. 

"Not quite." Barnes shifts away from Sam by an inch or so. It's not really necessary, but maybe the guy likes his space even if Sam wasn't that close anyway, so he doesn't think more of it.

"You want to?"

Barnes takes in a deep lungful of air, turns his head to Sam. His eyes make a quick sweep over Sam's face before he averts his gaze again. Christ, Sam hadn't realized just how clear blue Barnes' eyes are in daylight or the faint white scar curved over his cheekbone, but he does now, and it's kind of hard to swallow. 

"What? Specialize?" He scoffs, takes another sip but almost angry this time. He's one of the few Residents yet to decide.

"Well, I mean, why not. You're young, right? What, like 23?" Sam knows how to shoot shots, he probably shouldn't be so proud about that, but here he is.

And this one is totally a win because he gets Barnes to laugh, loud and cracking, if only for a second. "That's real fucking flattering, Wilson. Try 27."

Sam's grinning because this ever-elusive loner knows Sam's name and he’s finally saying more than two words grunted in hurried passing, he looks more alive now too. Sam's ma would be proud. 

Sam says, "So? You got time. We ain't going anywhere, right?"

Barnes fiddles with the straw. It's like he's about to give a totally different answer but he says, "That's what you're doing? Specializing?" 

That makes Sam start to sweat. His entire goal has been to get into a mentoring program with one of the Senior Surgeons, he’s been working his ass off hoping someone takes notice. 

Sam nods, "But first, training." 

Barnes looks like he's about to say something, but an ambulance comes flying through the entranceway, full parade, so he tosses the milkshake in the trash, cleans his hands at the door and grins at Sam.

"But first, hustle."

Now  _ that _ is a win. 

So, of course, Sam grins back. It creates some kind of moment between them that Sam can’t quite name, something that makes his heart swell just a little. 

Maybe it's important, maybe it's not, but it's definitely a step in the right direction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's POV next. Thank you for reading :)  
> Remember to reach out about anything you may need clarity on, or just to say hi: [glitter-cake20](https://glitter-cake20.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for pretty much all the things in this one. Special warning for attempted drowning and dissociative non-con encounter.

This guy's trouble. Bucky knows that in his bones. It's not bad trouble, is the problem, it's good. Sam is so goddamn inherently good, and if Bucky even touches that with a ten-foot pole—fuck if he even looks at it—it'll turn to shit. 

He can't afford another move to yet another city because his colleagues started recognizing Brock's fist prints on his face. 

So his plan was to look down, keep to himself, stay off radars. It has worked so far. But Wilson's something else. Makes it hard to keep to himself, Wilson makes him talk, makes him fucking smile instead- genuine too, not like he has to pretend to do sometimes to ward off a fight. 

And it's going to cost him. So he should back off or tell Sam to back off, but then the guy'll come in with two lattes and a fruit cup to share and tell Bucky animated stories while they eat it. Or he'll start singing while they work, getting the whole goddamn place riled up along with him until even the patients are singing along. 

Have you ever seen the E.R throw it down to Beyoncé because one man started singing Single Ladies? Bucky has. It's goddamn entrancing. 

Sam's a ridiculously bright glowing light, a beacon, and Bucky goes toward it like that idiotic moth to the flame. 

They've spent three days together in the E.R, and Bucky has laughed more now than he has in the last four years of his life. He's been living slightly deliriously these last few days; he's forgotten just for this little while what he goes home to. He has been ignoring the stinging bitemark on his shoulder and his bruised hip. 

He's managed to put this all away for a little while—the shame of it, the bitterness, the fear—and managed to enjoy himself, allowed himself to have fun with the rest of them.

Tuesday, Sam introduces him to some of the other guys, Steve, Sam's best friend, Sharon, another Res, and a Paramedic named Erik. He sits with them at lunch, and if they think he is some quiet weirdo, they don't let on. 

On Wednesday, Bucky walks in on Steve and one of the Attendings in the on-call room doing some serious Grey's Anatomy shit. The first person he thinks to tell is Sam. He finds him in the Pit, bandaging up a skateboarder. 

"On-call is a no go zone. Your friend's getting busy with that Attending with the goatee," he says as he sidles up to Sam. 

Sam's eyebrows go up, "Stark?? Seriously." 

"Stark's okay, got that older dude thing going on." 

He realizes belatedly what he's saying, and that it is exactly what attracted him to Brock in the first place, so he shuts up. Sam frowns at his sudden retreat. 

"Steve does have a thing, yeah," Sam says, "You got a thing for older dudes too?" 

_ Shit. Here we go. _

There's the inevitable possibility that Sam will meet Brock at some point weighed against the improbable fantasy of Bucky leaving him before that happens. No point in lying then. He's not even sure when that part of his life became something he wanted to hide. Maybe it was the second time Brock cracked one of his ribs, or perhaps after that time he went deaf for a couple of hours after a nice hard slap. (because Brock figured out if you slap hard enough, it has the same impact as a punch but with less visible proof.) Or somewhere in between, wherever he got lost along the way.

"You could say that, yeah." He smiles, but it's tight now, not easy anymore. 

Sam grins, "Denzel, am I right?"

"Idris, to be honest." 

Sam grins, "Yeah? Damn, can't argue there."

Bucky's about to answer when a woman stumbles through the sliding doors. She's gushing blood either from her mouth or nose, possibly both and collapses just as he gets to her. 

Outside, a car skids away and leaves only the screeching sound of tires behind. 

Sam yells to Reception, "Get plates on that car, stat!" 

They think it's a hit and run while they start prepping, and Sam lifts her onto one of the gurneys to push her into the bay. 

"H&R, female, late twenties, multiple contusions—" Sam's getting an oxygen mask on her, Scott comes over to help control the blood everywhere. "—get Xrays ready, full-body."

But then Bucky looks up. He sees a black eye, a split lip, four circular indents just below her eye socket. He sees himself in a mirror four years ago, those same imprints he covered with dollar store makeup.

"Sam—"

"What? Can you get a pulse?"

"Yeah, 60 bpm falling, but Sam," 

Sam looks up, sweating, worried because she looks dire, "Yeah?"

Bucky touches his forefinger to her cheek where it's black and blue and bulging, and shakes his head, "Not an H&R." 

Sam takes it in, hastily starts checking the rest of her body—arms, legs, torso—and Bucky doesn't have to look to know there are boot prints instead of tire marks. 

"Fuck," Sam hisses. "Okay. Alright. Plates on the car, x-rays." Sam beckons Scott over to inform him of the change before he calls the cops.

Bucky draws the curtains; he wants to puke. She starts to convulse, rattling on the gurney, blood begins trickling from her ear — even more spurts from her mouth. 

Bucky and Sam do what they can to stabilize her, and when she finally flat lines, Sam pulls out the defib. 

It all disperses into slow motion. They can't move fast enough, and yet everything speeds by them. 

He knows he's watching himself a good couple of years from now. On an E.R table, skull smashed in reeking of stale beer and Brock's aftershave. 

They lose her. Sam calls it at 23:04.

While they pack up, pull the rubber gloves off, and cover her beaten face with the sheet, Sam starts humming Amazing Grace, and a few nurses join in.

Bucky's rearranging the equipment with his back to Sam so that his tears stay hidden, just like everything else. 

Sharon and Steve show up a little after midnight for their shift. Bucky's relieved to go home; everything is so heavy inside after losing someone. This one particularly hits home for him, this woman whose name they don't even know was beaten to a bloody pulp and just dropped at their door. 

It scares him. It feels like a million little voices in his head are screaming at him to pay attention. But he knows, he goddamn knows, he is acutely aware of how bad things can get. What's the use though? He can't leave, he can't live on the streets. So alarm bells are silenced and red flags are pulled down.

He's on his way down the passage when Sam falls into step with him.

Bucky says, "You doing okay?" Shit like this takes a toll on you, Sam's a kind guy; he's soft, Bucky can't imagine any of this being easy for him.

Sam's hand comes up around Bucky's shoulder, "They say you get used to it, but I don't know man. Feels like a plane crash each time." he pauses, there's something horribly raw in his voice. "You?" 

Bucky's spazzing about Sam's arm around his shoulder, but he lets Sam walk him out like that. Honestly? It feels kind of nice; it's comforting. And maybe they both kind of need that right now.

"Good as I'm gonna get," he says, doesn't quite manage a smile this time.

They swing the front doors open in a joint effort, and it must be by some divine intervention that Sam drops his arm just as they step out and see Brock leaning against his truck out front. 

He doesn't know if Brock saw, doesn't know if it even matters. 

Bucky tries to gauge it. Upside: Brock's smiling his charming, friendly smile. Downside: he smells like neat whiskey.

Sam looks kind of surprised but sticks his hand out to greet Brock, "So you're the one keeping him company at work?" Brock says, nice enough, "I'm Brock Rumlow—"

To earn some good graces, Bucky quickly adds, "My boyfriend." probably too abrupt, too obvious, "This is Sam, we're working the Pit together this week."

"Hey, nice to meet you," Sam says to Brock with his own dumb levels of charm. And now Bucky sees it, that stone coldness setting in behind Brock's eyes. 

In Bucky's pockets, his hands start trembling.

Brock's turning to him now, "You ready to go, baby face?" Sweet and sugary, dripping with feigned politeness. 

Bucky nods, "Yeah. Yeah. Good to go." he gives Sam an awkward wave, "See ya in the morning."

"See you, Barnes."

As they head toward the truck, Brock hooks his arm around Bucky's neck, shakes him, then kisses his temple hard and with no affection, no warmth. 

And Bucky just knows. 

"What?" Brock grits out, putting on a smile because Sam's watching them go, "Can't kiss your little boyfriend nighty night in front of me, huh?" Bucky opens his mouth, but Brock cuts him off, "Shut up. Put your fucking arm around me." 

He slips his arm around Brock's waist and says, "Brock, please…"

Brock pinches Bucky's bicep so hard he can hardly keep from flinching. "I said, shut up."

So Bucky does.

* * *

There are dishes in the sink when Bucky and Brock get home. Bucky's been on long shifts, and Brock's not really one for housework. 

He can tell Jack and the guys were over again at some point; he's got ashtrays to empty and beer bottles to get rid of and the place smells like a dump. He does it quietly, casting discreet glances at Brock, who's fiddling with the aircon. 

The silence kills him, so does the lack of an outburst. He doesn't know if maybe the pinch on his arm was enough, if Brock really just wanted him to shut up, or if it's building up to something worse. 

One thing he's learned, though, is not to bank on predictability. 

He shrugs off the top of his scrubs and tosses it in the washing machine, then starts doing the dishes. His voice is kind of shaky when he speaks, "How was your day?" 

His head's slightly turned, so he sees Brock looking up at him, "Fine. Boring." Then Brock comes to lean on the counter behind Bucky and says, "Can't all be fancy doctors, whoring around at the hospital all day." 

Bucky sighs quietly, forces a smile into his voice, desperately trying to placate this, "No one whores around there, babe. Too busy." 

He dares a glance backward, finds Brock smiling too, but it's sharp and dark, "Uh-huh." he pauses for a moment, "You trying to say I'm not busy?"

"No, no, no, no baby," Bucky scrambles for words, the dish sponge curled in his fist, "I know you're busy, I know that."

Brock comes around the counter, he stands behind Bucky and cages him against the sink. "Just not good enough then? You want a fancy boyfriend, hm?"

Bucky shuts his eyes, "No."

Brock's breath is warm in his neck, lips brushing against Bucky's ear. "So, I'm not fancy?"

"Babe… please," 

He feels Brock's hands coming up to his hair and regrets every moment he's decided not to cut it. He contemplates to do it each time he gets wrung around by it like a three-year-old's barbie doll. But then he thinks that'll probably piss Brock off even more if he can't braid his hair afterward. So Bucky keeps it long but tied in a bun, so it's harder to get hold of.

Except, this time, Brock starts undoing the hair tie, loops it around and around, and drops it into the dishwater as Bucky's hair tumbles to his shoulders. 

There's half a second of reprieve—it seems short, but it's the longest thing when you're waiting for the blow to hit—and then Brock shoves his head into the sink, into the water.

Bucky starts thrashing. He's knocking dishes off the side, scrambling desperately to get up, to breathe. But Brock is too strong; he's got Bucky by the back of the neck. 

The soapy water stings his eyes and burns through his sinuses, half of it going down his throat, and he's torn between just giving up and ending this all right here, or fighting for his life.

It's the last few seconds before he knows he's about to pass out that Brock hauls him back and shoves him to the floor, face down. 

Bucky's gasping and sputtering—images of the Jane Doe from earlier come to him—he's coughing up dishwater, sucking in air at the same time.

Brock sits down on Bucky's back, wraps a hand around his throat, and squeezes so Bucky can't breathe, "You think you're so fucking smart, huh, think I'm a piece of shit? Like you can do better? You want a doctor, just like you? Hm?" he tightens his grip around Bucky's neck, the tips of his fingers dig in deep, "That what you want?" 

Bucky garbles something, might be "please" might be "stop" he's not sure, but Brock reaches around and slaps him hard across the cheek.

Then he leans down, right beside Bucky's ear, "You think you're a doctor…." he grips Bucky's hair and pulls, seething, "You're just a whore."

Bucky's eyes shoot up with tears because of the pain, the hurt, the helplessness. He tried fighting back once... couldn't walk for two days. 

There's no escaping this. He tried that too. Brock found him, put his Glock's barrel in Bucky's mouth.  _ "This is the only way you leave me, so go ahead." _

Even if he managed to leave somehow, he'd have nothing. Brock has control of all his accounts, there's not a cent to Bucky's name, all he has are the scrubs on his back. 

Brock lets him slump down on the floor, "Fucking make me so mad!! Jesus fucking christ! Do you like this?? You like making me fucking lose it??" 

"I'm sorry, you know I'm sorry." his voice is hoarse, broken, he coughs again.

Brock kicks him in the ribs this time, "Shut up!!!"

There's a sharp sound that escapes him. He tries not to scream, tries to suck it up, but it's a goddamn blinding pain, and all he can do is start crying. He cries so hard his lungs hurt, shoulders start shaking, and every place on his body that Brock's ever touched aches. "Oh god, oh god, oh god," he cries, open-mouthed and ugly but unable to stop. 

"No," Brock says, much quieter, "No baby," and he kneels beside Bucky to start scooping him up, "No, no, no, shhh." 

Bucky's shaking with sobs, hitching wet breaths as Brock holds him to his chest while whispering useless utterances into his hair, but never sorry. 

He's never ever sorry. 

Brock picks him up, carries him to their bedroom. He wipes his face down with a warm cloth. Wipes away the tears and dirty dishwater. Wipes his neck down where he strangled him, his cheek where he smacked him. Like it's all gone now. To Brock, it is. 

He throws the cloth to the side and gets undressed, pulls Bucky's vest, and scrubs off too. Brock starts kissing all the way from his bruised ribs up to his neck, lingers there, and starts stroking Bucky's dick to hardness. It takes a while, Bucky has to find someplace to go in his head. A nd he finds that he goes to Sam.

"That's it, beautiful boy," Brock tells him while he spits on his dick and slides into Bucky. But it's just Sam, he sees only Sam. "Gonna make it all better now, you' ll— _ ah fuck _ —you'll see."

It burns, and Brock starts going faster right away, "You're fine… yeah, it's fine." he strokes Bucky's hair and face and chest. "You're fine."

He's not, but he's thinking of Sam, the way he smiles, the way he talks, the way his arm felt around Bucky, the way his body looks in his scrubs. Bucky imagines what it'll be like to kiss him, to whisper into his neck, wonders what Sam smells like.

Brock bites down on his shoulder then, on the tendon, and sinks his teeth in deep. Bucky cries out, and Brock must mistake it for him enjoying himself because he shifts himself to face Bucky so that he can kiss him. 

Bucky lets him, kisses back even because he imagines Sam's lips instead. It makes Brock moan, rock into him hard. A couple of seconds later, Brock starts jerking him off, making it easier for his body to do what it needs to do.

"Look at me," Brock says, forcing Bucky to open his eyes, "There you go, feel good? See I make you feel good. Who else'll do this for you, huh?" 

In his mind, Sam grins at him; they're making out in an on-call room, "Just you," he whispers, and Brock groans, kisses his neck again. "Only you." and then he comes.

Brock follows a while later; he likes to drag it out after a fight, Bucky thinks it's his way of apologizing, though he never quite manages the words. Bucky hates riding it out through those extra few minutes where he's sensitive and sleepy and just wants Brock to get the fuck off. 

He does eventually, Bucky's sore and stiff and nauseous, guilty and sick for having thought of Sam that way, for not wanting of Brock instead. He loves him… He loved him… He used to…

Bucky sits still for twenty minutes afterward so that Brock can braid his hair. His hands work fast, he repeats it twice,  _ just two Hail Marys then, _ Bucky thinks in somber silence. Once his hair is neat and tidy and in place the way Brock likes it, Brock falls back on the bed and drifts off.

Once Brock is fast asleep, Bucky pushes the bedroom door open and picks up all the broken dishes from the floor, mops up the water, and empties the sink he nearly drowned in. 

He feels fuzzy and thick as he picks his way through the apartment, things don't feel tangible in his hands, like it's a scene of a play, and he's watching from the front row. The whimsical spray of streetlights from outside just makes it worse. 

In a wink, he's back in Indiana, his parent's place- big back yard and a tree swing, the happiness coursing through him like nitrogen. His smile is easy, and his heart is light; there's nothing hurting. The only screams are Becca's sporadic yelps of joy as they fly their plastic dinosaurs through water sprinklers. 

It leaves him staring at the pile of shattered glass in the dustpan clutched in his hand when he blinks. He's not sure what snaps him out of his reverie, but when he does, his cheeks are cold and wet. 

He puts those thoughts away, far away. In his haze, he gets rid of the kitchen and bathroom sink's plugs, then says a small prayer of thanks that they don't have a bathtub. 

Briefly, wildly, he wonders if drowning would have been easier than breathing is right now.

But that's not the way he wants to leave this world. 

Granted, by Brock's hands isn't either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi: [glitter-cake20](https://glitter-cake20.tumblr.com/)  
> This one is a little longer because I decided to combine rather than have two Bucky chapters in a row. Hope y'all are liking this so far. Sam's pov up next.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for this chapter: reference to a parent dying and reference to physical violence toward a woman.

“Don’t listen to that dude, he thinks Crocs are acceptable footwear in public,” Sam tells Amalia, the youngest of the burn victims in this unit.  
  
“Listen, Crocs are perfectly comfortable shoes to wear for strenuous activity.” Steve’s setting up Rory’s new I.V. The kid's giggling at him. “You just buy black, so it matches with everything.” he shrugs, completing his argument.  
  
Sam still won’t be caught dead in those.  
  
“What is sentutous?” Amalia asks, her little arm resting in Sam’s palm.  
  
_“Strenuous,”_ he says slowly, “Means something that makes you tired.”   
  
“Is surgery strenuous?” she says the word carefully but this time it's right, and Sam smiles at her.   
  
He knows she’s worried about the procedure tomorrow. It’s a first for both of them. “Hey, you know I’ll be there, I’ll be helping Dr. Okoye. You’re going to be okay.”  
  
She nods her little head, “Will you hold my hand?”   
  
“I’ll need my hand, baby, but Steve’s gonna.”   
  
Steve’s bout to protest, Sam knows full well the surgery was scheduled at the same time as Steve’s booty call, but Amalia grins at him like sunrise and he caves. “Sure thing, honey. Hey, how about I wear my Power Puff Girls mask, huh?”  
  
“Okay!”   
  
Sam kisses her forehead and heads to the next kid. He’s surprised to find Barnes standing in the doorway, and he shoots a quick wave to Sam.   
  
“Come here,” Sam calls out to him, he looks kind of different today, yet he can’t say how exactly.   
  
When Barnes is close enough, Sam notices the high-neck compression top under his scrubs. He laughs, “You cold or?”   
  
He looks a little taken aback like he wasn’t planning on being questioned, and he doesn't meet Sam's eyes, “Oh, missed laundry day. Just grabbed whatever I could find.”  
  
“Right.” Sam checks Jayden’s chart, but the little guy’s asleep, so he doesn’t get to show him the shark video he saved, “You working down here this week?” he asks Barnes.  
  
Barnes shakes his head, his cheeks go a little red, “Just came to say hi. I’m in I.C.U with Carter.”   
  
“Oooh, then it’s a good thing you ain’t here to switch shifts. Hate that place.” Sam checks the next chart and leaves a note for the nurse.  
  
Barnes stays close behind him, hands in his scrub pockets when Sam glances his way. Then he knows what’s different; it’s not the high-neck. It’s the dark half-moons under his eyes, and his hair’s not in that neat bun today. It’s messy, tied back like he wasn’t paying attention.   
  
“It’s the smell that does it,” Sam says, “sat there while my daddy was dying, every time I think of him, I smell it. Like death-”  
  
“-but clean,” Barnes adds.  
  
“That’s it.” Sam smiles, “That’s exactly it. It’s unnatural.”  
  
"That why you got into medicine? Your dad?"  
  
"No," Sam laughs, nostalgically fond. His dad had other dreams for him, less blood and gore, more courtrooms, and legalities. "My friend Riley." He doesn't say anything else about the accident because it's been a really good day so far, and he doesn't feel like bawling right this second.  
  
Barnes pulls his mouth kind of like a smile, just not exactly. "I'm sorry."  
  
“Thanks, man. How about you?”   
  
“Grandad was a doctor in the war. He always told these stories ‘bout him saving people out in the field,” Barnes says, “I just admired the shit out of him, wanted to be like that.”   
  
“Sounds like a good guy.” 

They’re standing by the door now and looking at the ward of kids, burnt and injured, but each one full of hope and life and wonder. Something Sam thinks grown-ups have lost along the way.   
  
“They’re so small,” Barnes says with this flat inflection. Sam gets it. It’s hard to think that kids this young have gone through so much. But Sam sees strength where Barnes sees sorrow.   
  
“They’re stronger than anyone I know, including myself.”   
  
Barnes looks perplexed. Softly he says, “How?”   
  
If Sam didn’t know anything at all, he’d think Barnes is asking for himself, not a question but advice. Sam answers it like that anyway, just in case.   
  
“When you’re here,” he gestures out to the ward, to Kelly with full-body burns and irreparable cornea damage, to Nathan and Michelle with amputated limbs, “There is nothing else to do but be strong. When you’re this close to despair,” he looks back at Barnes, “ain’t no such thing as giving up.”  
  
Barnes sucks in a deep breath, turns to Sam with those god darn blue eyes, and nods as a smile slowly starts working its way onto his lips. “Yeah, you’re right, Wilson.”  
  
Sam plants his hand on Barnes' shoulder and squeezes, but what's meant to be a comforting gesture makes Barnes flinch and hiss. His face does the quickest 360 Sam's ever seen. From pained to smiling in a blink, "Sunburn." He explains really fast, "Fell asleep in the sun."  
  
Sam stares at him, tries to put it together, all these mismatching pieces of late, Barnes' boyfriend… something doesn't click. It's a niggling annoyance in the back of Sam's mind, and it’s frustrating because Sam's smart he can figure anything out.  
  
"Uh, anyway," Barnes suddenly says, starts fiddling with his collar then his hair. He throws his thumb in the door's direction, "I gotta run." Then his smile goes soft, and Sam feels his neck flush under that gaze, "See you, Sam."  
  
"I'll see you, man." 

* * *

“So you _do_ like him,” Steve says at lunch. For a change they’re all able to eat together again, so Sharon and Erik join them too. Sam hasn’t seen Barnes’s since this morning, and he’s trying not to feel mopey about, but nothing gets by Steven Grant.  
  
Sharon comes to sit down, picking onions out of her wrap, “Like who?”  
  
“No one!” Sam eyes Steve and pokes him in the ribs when he still looks like he’s about to start.  
  
“Oh, that new Res?” Erik says, totally unhelpful, “One with the hair?”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes, sighs, and shovels fries into his mouth instead of answering. They’ll just argue with him until he admits it, so what’s the point?  
  
“He’s nice.” Sharon says, she puts the onions on Steve’s plate, and he puts it on his burger, “Cute too.”  
  
Sam takes a sip of coke, “And taken. So.”  
  
Erik makes a dismissive noise, “Is it serious?”  
  
Steve says, “Come on.” like the Brooklyn boy he is; his o sounds more like an a, “Relationships are all serious.” And he looks honest-to-god offended that Erik would even ask that.  
  
“Are they, though?” Erik snickers because pissing Steve off is an endearing hobby of his.  
  
“Bro,” Sam says to Erik, “You would walk into a church, during a wedding, and slide into the Bride’s DM and ask her what she’s doing. You don’t get to ask questions.”  
  
Steve laughs, victoriously.  
  
“And you!” Sam says, pointing him down with a fry, “Talking about relationship importance while casually banging Stark.”  
  
Erik gasps dramatically, and Steve pokes him with a spork, blood-red in his face.  
  
“You guys are disgusting, I swear.” Sharon wipes her mouth and sits back, “So, about Barnes…”  
  
“Nah, look. They seemed—”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait, you _met_ him??” Steve’s eyes are wide, “What’s he look like??”  
  
“I mean, nice probably, I dunno.” Sam does know. The guy’s attractive sure, with his stormy eyes and shiny hair, that square face that has you looking for maybe a second too long. But there’s something about him, something very off and Sam doesn’t like it.  
  
“Nice?” Sharon says flat.  
  
“Brown hair, tanned, jawline, blah blah, standard white boy edition.”  
  
“I am standard white boy edition,” Steve says proudly, and Erik says, “No, you’re the dumbass white boy edition.” To which Sharon argues they’re all goddamn dumbasses, and someone tosses a piece of lettuce across the table.  
  
They’re arguing over some nonsensical shit, laughing raucously the way they do when they start ribbing the hell out of each other, when someone very softly says, “Hey guys.”  
  
When Sam looks up, Barnes is standing there, and all his fucking hair is shaved clean off, buzzcut, and he’s grinning from ear to ear. Sam’s heart drops into his stomach in that good blushy way.  
  
Erik throws his hands up, “Ayeee!!” and Steve goes, “Woahhh!!” and Sharon pulls a chair out for him between her and Sam.  
  
They’re all fussing about it, rubbing their hands over his scalp while he grins sheepishly at them.  
  
Something Sam notices but doesn’t linger or comment on is the absence of Barnes’ high neck compression top he had on earlier, and the two bruises on the side of his neck.  
  
Hickeys, Sam thinks. And he probably shouldn’t feel any kind of way about it, but he does. That Brock guy’s one lucky asshole. Sam tries really hard not to imagine himself giving Barnes a few hickeys or how he’d smell up close like that, how his-  
  
“You can touch it,” Barnes says, probably because Sam’s been staring. At first, Sam thinks, _your hickeys?!?,_ but Sharon's scratching Barnes' head, nodding encouragingly.   
  
“Yeah, Sam, touch it,” Erik says with this goddamn shit-eating grin. The others goad too; Steve winks suggestively. Sam hates all of them.  
  
“You guys are so fuckin’ weird, man.” He still touches Barnes’ head, though, says, “Feels like a fluffy cactus.” and makes them all laugh, which is a new look for Barnes. A good look.   
  
They all start talking about Sam’s first procedure tomorrow, how he got handpicked like a fine wine by Okoye herself to assist with Amalia’s skin graft, how they’d all kill to be in his shoes, working side by side with The Okoye J’Kuwali like that. Sam thinks they’re doing it just to hype him up with Barnes because they know about his crush now.   
  
Maybe he doesn’t hate them all that much.  
  
After lunch, Sam does his rounds with Steve in the kiddie’s ward again. He takes them all a coloring book and a packet of crayons he picked up over the weekend, and they sit around a small table with the kids for a while to color in.   
  
Late afternoon he runs into Sharon in X-rays, where she’s looking at a dildo too far up a patient’s guts.   
  
“Wow,” he says.  
  
She snorts, “Tell me about it.”  
  
“Well, it looks like they had fun. Tell me it ain’t still vibrating.”   
  
“Huh.” She chuckles and slides to the next image, “They weren’t the only ones having fun last night, did you see that massive hickey in your lover boy’s neck?”   
  
Why does she have to remind him? “Two, actually.”   
  
She frowns, “No… just one.”  
  
“Two.” Sam motions to his neck, “on the right, one below the other.”   
  
Sharon squints then tips her head sideways, “No… I was sitting on his left, and there’s just one.”  
  
Sam’s so confused; he was one hundred percent sure there were two because he was feeling some feelings about it. At least he knows why the guy’s been wearing a high neck. “Well, he was obviously very, uh, busy then.”  
  
Sharon’s still frowning, staring off somewhere into the distance, “Or…”  
  
“What?”  
  
She shakes her head, “No. Never mind.”   
  
“No, what is it?”  
  
She lets out a deep sigh and turns to Sam, “Tell anyone, and I’ll kill you.” Sam pretends to zip his lips. She continues, “I dated a guy in college. He uh… things weren’t great. He started pushing me around, shit like that.”  
  
“I’m sorry,”   
  
“No, he’s dead now—”  
  
“Wait, what??”  
  
“Not the point! Focus! So, one night everything got out of hand, right, and he just… he started choking me, hard… like, I couldn’t breathe.”  
  
“Shar—” Sam starts.  
  
Sharon shakes her head, “It was a long time ago. What I’m trying to say is that my bruises looked a lot like hickeys too… that’s what I told people they were. You’re too ashamed to admit the truth, even to yourself, so you lie.”  
  
Sam feels sick, kind of helpless too. If Barnes has been going through it...  
  
“Fuck… Do you think—”  
  
“I can’t say Sam, but I’d keep my eyes open if I were you.”  
  
“Why’d he take the shirt off, though? I mean, if that’s what it is… wouldn’t he wanna keep it covered?”  
  
Sharon gathers up her stuff and heads out the door, “Look, I gotta run, but just… people have strange ways of asking for help, Sammy. He might not be able to say anything; doesn’t mean he’s not speaking up.”  
  
Sam feels a little out of it after Sharon leaves, a million things running through his mind, too many things that don’t make sense, and too many that do. But right now, he’s got a session with Okoye to train for his first skin graft tomorrow and needs to be lethally focused; this could be the start of his entire career.   
  
They’ve still got a hell of a shift to go, so he thinks he’ll catch Barnes later on, but until then he’s got time to figure out how to ask someone if they’re getting beat up as subtly as he can, and then he’ll see if there’s time to plot out a murder on one Brock Rumpleskin or whatever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no specific warnings for this one.

Brock's going to fucking kill him. Literally. Bucky's thanking whatever god listens that they've still got an ass load of hours left on this shift- he doesn't have the balls to go home just yet.

All his hair is fucking gone.

Nothing to pull, nothing to wrap around a fist, nothing to braid and braid and _fucking_ braid into goddamn oblivion as repentance. 

On the one hand, he feels like a weight's crumbled off his shoulders; on the other, his brain tells him that Brock will just drag him around by this throat now. He doesn't know what's worse- that or dying, and the thought makes him shudder. 

But what's done is done now. It's done, and he made himself a promise. As his hair fell to the floor in shiny clumps, he swore he'd start fighting again. He'd try. Seeing how strong those children are, how _they_ keep fighting… he's got no reason to give up the way he has been.

He's in the locker room after a shower to get the prickling hairs off his skin, and he's supposed to be alone. He times these things well: go in after Steve, then he's got ten minutes before Quill and Lang get off graveyard Pit shift to shower and head home. That way, no one asks questions he has no answers to. Questions about purple and blue ribs, fading black circles on his inner arms, bite marks on his shoulders…

But this time, he hears the door creak open, then Sam's voice, "Barnes?"

Shit fuck, he's half-naked, scrambling around for his shirt, and it just has to stick to his skin right now, still damp from the shower. God fucking damn it. 

He's got the shirt up under his arms when Sam comes around the row of lockers; there's no way he didn't see. No way. 

"Hey, man—oh shit…" 

Bucky spins around, away from Sam, and pulls the shirt down. "Uh, hey," he mumbles, hands shaking now. "How'd the training go?"

"The… yeah. Yeah went well. It uh—" god Bucky knows what's coming, "—hey, that looks… you okay?"

He takes a breath and turns around. "Hm?" he feels like shit for challenging Sam's intelligence like this, for having to lie to him.

Sam's voice goes soft, his eyes too. Bucky would hate that expression on anyone else. He hates the pity in people's eyes. But Sam… Sam not so much. Maybe because it is more concern than pity. 

"Your ribs, buddy." 

"Oh!" he places his palm over it, "This? No, that's… it's fine. I slipped in the bathroom." he looks up to meet Sam's eyes because that's what truthful people do, "Landed on the toilet." and for the obligatory comedic effect, he laughs, "Real clumsy."

Sam's frowning in that far off kind of way, then he says, "Yeah, look, if it wasn't the toilet… I'm just saying you can tell me." he swallows, observes Bucky, "You can trust me." 

Bucky smiles, tries to make it look like he has no idea what Sam means.

"Give me your phone," Sam suddenly says, holding his hand out. 

Bucky obliges before he knows why. Sam can't put his fucking number in Bucky's phone, jesus. If Brock sees it, he'll flip, he'll—

But Sam's typing _" Bay Bridge Mem Health Board."_ with what is probably Sam's number, and Bucky exhales so hard Sam notices. 

Sam puts the phone back in Bucky's palm and keeps his hand there for a moment, his eyes falling to Bucky's neck. 

Bucky's staring at him helplessly, desperately, scared.

"Any time, I mean it." 

Bucky nods and silently thanking Sam for walking away before the tears start rolling down his cheeks. 

  
By the time his evening rounds are done, and all the patients have been dosed, fed, and scheduled for treatment the next day, Bucky goes outside to the ambulance bay for some fresh air. 

The rest of the guys are there too. He finds that since getting to know them, he doesn't mind all that much, they're pretty cool. Working the Pit with Sam that week really put things into perspective. He spends his life at home hidden away in a shell, and he tried doing that at work too, and for a few months, he succeeded.

But he's only human; he craves interaction, he forgot how to enjoy himself around other people until now. Brock would never know unless he checks the hospital camera footage, so Bucky thinks he's pretty safe for now.

He just has to be careful not to slip up. 

Erik and Sam are racing wheelchairs while Steve's sitting on a low wall with a coffee, Sharon, Val and one of the interns are flat on their backs staring up at the night sky. 

"White boy!" Erik shouts at Bucky, just standing there with his hands in his pockets.

Sam's head whips his way, and yeah, Bucky really shouldn't be liking the way he smiles that much. It definitely should not do what it does to his stomach.

Sam skids up to him in the wheelchair, breathless, "Race you the rest of the way?"

Bucky shrugs off his lab coat, and gets into the chair, "Alright. What're the stakes?"

"You buy us all a round of shots at Stan's on Friday." Sam's grin is sharp in the moonlight.

"You're assuming I'll lose," Bucky says.

"Oh. I know you'll lose." Sam positions his wheelchair next to Bucky's, "We've been practicing while you ignored us for five months."

Bucky snorts, "You're a big shot, huh? It's fine. You'll learn." 

Erik goes "whooooo!!!" at the made-up finish line.

Sam bursts out laughing like he's surprised Bucky can talk shit too. He was really good at it once upon a time, a wise-ass his mom used to say when he still spoke to her. Good to know it's not completely buried.

"Alright, golden boy. Ready?" 

Sam laughs again, shakes his head kind of incredulously, "Yeah, okay. Ready."

They go at it, and it's probably the most alive Bucky's felt in years: the wind on his skin, his heart pumping recklessly, his cheeks sore from smiling, a quick rush of happiness coursing through his veins. 

Even when he loses, it's worth it. Sam acting a goddamn fool about it is _so_ worth it.

Their fun gets cut short by an ambulance speeding into the bay, pushing in a coronary attack.

They get back to work. Sam and Bucky take this one together, dealing it smooth and effortless. Sam's on full support as Bucky works. He handles the I.V and oxygen while Bucky hooks up the heart monitors, and starts up a cardiac catheter. 

He works well with Sam, really well, the guy honestly deserves that golden boy title. 

Their patient survives, is now stable, and sleeping, and this day rounds off rather successfully. 

That is until it's time to leave.

They all walk out together when the next shift's guys show up, so at least it's not just him and Sam this time and Bucky's kind of off to the side anyway, busy on his phone. 

Brock's there to pick him up again, standing with a fat bunch of red roses in his arms. Brock sees the hair but smiles anyway, doesn't even flinch. He's getting real good at acting.

The others stop just a little way off, watching.

Bucky locks his phone and slides it into his pocket. "Wow…" he says. He runs his finger along the velvety petals, "They're pretty."

Brock pulls him close by the back of his neck, says, "So are you, kid." and kisses Bucky right there in front of everyone. He wants to vanish into a sidewalk crack, but he has to play along for his own good, so he kisses back. Brock pulls away a second later, "I like the hair." 

He's not pinching or squeezing or twisting Bucky's arm, so maybe he really means it this time… maybe. So Bucky says, "Thanks."

He gets into the truck with the ridiculous bunch of flowers in his arms, can't stop himself from glancing out to where Sam waits with Sharon. 

Sam's taking it all in- Brock, that kiss, this inordinate display of affection, but his face is blank, and he gives Bucky a long, wordless glance before the truck pulls away. 

Bucky looks down at his lap when they drive off, swallows dry and hard, chest tight. 

Brock touches his leg and smiles at him. 

It's nothing like Sam's smile. 

* * *

Brock's not likely to hit him in the car since that one time he ran them off the road, and the cops came, so the ride home is quiet again. Bucky just waits. He is always waiting. He's not stupid enough to believe in miracles, so he knows it's coming.  
  
He still doesn't say anything about Bucky's hair when they get home, change clothes, and Bucky starts making something to eat. "You hungry? Making grilled cheese." He says, he expects a snark about eating with his new friends or his _'fancy boyfriend'_ and a smack to the back of his head, but nothing follows.  
  
Brock's sitting on the couch, flipping through channels with the remote, "Yeah. With chili."  
  
At his flat tone—no anger, no sarcasm—Bucky turns to look at him, frowning.  
  
Brock frowns back but placidly, calm, and Bucky's eyebrows go up, more out of surprise than anything else.  
  
"What?" Brock finally says, but his lips tug up a little, "You waitin' for a please?"  
  
He wasn't, but there's a defiant little edge of him starting to poke out, so he says, "It'd be nice." He chances a look at Brock again, and he's properly smiling now. Bucky doesn't think he's seen Brock's real smile in a very fucking long time.  
  
"Okay, well, _please_ make me a chili cheese, princess." It feels like old times, back when they were new and happy and stupid about it; when Brock loved his cheeky side.  
  
Bucky almost laughs but doesn't push his luck.  
  
It's silent for a long time after that. He finishes the grilled cheese while Brock watches the car shows that Bucky hates. They eat together and still nothing happens. Bucky's starting to think he's gotten off easy.  
  
Once he's done the dishes without being nearly drowned or cursed at Brock finally says, "Why'd you cut your hair?" He's coming to stand with Bucky in the kitchen.  
  
Feels like ice floods Bucky's veins, he swallows and turns to face his boyfriend. There's no lie he can really tell; it's clear as daylight. So, he says, "So you'd stop…" he's never said it out loud, even to himself, and it takes up every last bit of courage he has, "So you'd stop pulling me—"  
  
A breath escapes Brock, a quick huff, and it makes Bucky jump, he didn't mean to, but he does. Brock shakes his head, looks down.  
  
Everything inside Bucky trembles as Brock comes closer. He stops toe to toe with Bucky and puts his hands on Bucky's hips.  
  
"You know I love you," Brock says quietly.  
  
Bucky's lip quivers, but he bites it down; his eyes water up, though. There was a time he would have done anything for this man. He would have traveled to hell and back for him; he loved him so. Brock was his everything when he had nothing, no family or friends close by… and he took advantage of that.  
  
There's nothing quite like falling out of love with someone and not being able to leave them, comes pretty close to having the person you love strike you so hard you blackout. Indescribable, unreal, and trapped all the same.   
  
But now it's just scars healing upon scars, blue bruises fading over black. He feels nothing anymore.  
  
Bucky shakes his head, and tears start bubbling out. Very slowly, he says, "This isn't love." His voice is hoarse and unsure, scared, but he doesn't flinch when Brock's eyes snap up to him.  
  
And that seems to ignite the fire in Brock that Bucky's so used to, "What?" he moves in so that there's barely an inch between them.  
  
Bucky takes a deep breath, forces himself to look Brock in the eye. "It's not love. You don't love m—e"  
  
He gets slammed into the wall behind him by the front of his shirt, and Brock's holding him there. This time the words are a sneer of fury, "Wanna say that again?"  
  
His back hurts, his lungs work double-time, but he still doesn't break eye contact. Instead, he wraps his hand around Brock's wrist, squeezes as hard as Brock's pushing against his chest.  
  
"You don't love me. You don't… this isn't love, it isn't any—thing."  
  
He hits the wall again, and Brock's other hand comes up to grip his face, squeezing. "Shut up!!!" Brock screams, "Just… what the fuck do you know!? Huh?!" he shakes Bucky, "What do you know!?"  
  
Bucky starts crying, and Brock lunges forward, kisses him. But it's so fucking hard his teeth hit Bucky's lip, and he feels the rush of blood instantly, tastes the copper tang on his tongue.  
  
It makes him so fucking angry; he's so goddamn tired of tasting his own blood. He's _so_ tired.  
  
With strength he'd long forgotten, he shoves Brock off him, sends him staggering back into the lounge. "Get off!!" he screams. The look on Brock's face is kind of priceless, makes Bucky want to burst out laughing.  
  
But Brock's expression goes stone-cold in an instant, he rolls his neck and growls, "I'm gonna _fucking_ kill you, kid, I'm gonna—"  
  
But Bucky reaches over to the knife block on the counter and pulls one out He throws it at Brock's feet.

"Do it then."  
  
Brock stops, lips parting with his next words, but they don't come.  
  
Bucky's words do, "Do it. 'Cause I'm tired, Brock. I'm fucking tired of living like this. I'm hurting. So, do it. Go on." He motions to the knife on the floor. "Do it."  
  
Brock straightens up, still fuming, but he doesn't pick up the knife, doesn't even look at it. He runs a hand through his hair, looks around the apartment, then back at Bucky, contemplating.  
  
He's still silent when he turns around, grabs his coat, wallet, and phone and heads out the door. He slams it hard enough that Bucky knows he's still pissed, but he doesn't return.  
  
The wall is suddenly cold behind Bucky's back; his ears ring with the silence around him now. He can't believe he'd done that, and maybe that's why his head is swimming the way it is, maybe that's why his knees won't hold him anymore.  
  
He slumps down against the wall, arms resting on his knees, and just kind of waits, staring off into the darkness. His mouth tastes like blood, and his head hurts, but he's floating off someplace else: A big backyard with a tree swing and a pink dollhouse and a little girl called Becca, the sun gleams through the trees, he's laughing, playing with plastic dinosaurs. He's happy and whole, and there's not a place on his body that aches, inside or out. 

He wonders where Becca is now, if she's still with mom, he wonders if they'll ever forgive him for choosing Brock and leaving them. He wonders if it was even fucking worth it. He knows it wasn't though, all those bitter words that were said, all the time that has passed only for him to end up alone anyway. Just like Becca said, he would. She knew what Brock was the moment she set eyes on him, and Bucky called her paranoid.

He'd give anything to be able to call her up now but he's not so sure there'll be open arms welcoming him back. 

He stays like that for a long, long time, and it's freezing when he finally blinks and realizes he's still sitting there.  
  
The blood has dried on his lip, and Brock's nowhere to be seen. He wonders if this is it. Is this the end of everything? The end of all the beatings and pain and helplessness.  
  
  
When the clock hits six a.m. and Brock still hasn't appeared, Bucky takes it as a tentative yes.  
  
Despite not having slept all night, he gets ready for Sam's big day with an extra bounce to his step.  
  
Maybe miracles are real, after all.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have another Bucky pov coming up next. Thank you all for your lovely feedback and enthusiasm, I appreciate it SO much!  
> I'm [glitter-cake20](https://glitter-cake20.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No specific warnings for this one, just mention of a medical procedure.

Bucky downs one of the energy drinks in the fridge and hopes it gives him the kick he needs to get going. Half of him is so tired he doesn't know how he'll get through eighteen hours of work today, but he'll deal with it.

The other half feels so awake he can hardly stand it- like life breathed back into a dead bird. 

His lip looks pretty shit where Brock's teeth hit him the night before; there is nothing any amount of makeup could do to cover it. It's swollen, it's there, and that's that. Bucky has learned that sometimes makeup just makes everything worse, so he'll risk going without it today. 

On his way to work, he stops by the coffee shop and picks up two lattes—same kind Sam got them in the E.R—and a fresh bagel. He knows he'd be pretty damn nervous if he were in Sam's shoes, standing next to Okoye like that, and food would be the very last thing on his mind. So he's betting Sam's had next to nothing passing his lips for the last couple of hours. 

He'd hate to see Sam faint or work with unsteady hands because he's hungry. In fact, he thinks he'd hate to see Sam experience any kind of discomfort for any reason, and his chest burns with a small flame of rage at the thought of Sam suffering. Which is a new thing of late... but not unwelcome at all. 

Bucky finds Steve in the hallway outside the O.R. The guy looks like _he's_ the one about to perform a skin graft with a world-renowned surgeon looming over his shoulder. 

"I can't find Sam," Steve sighs, panic riddled. 

Bucky feels his eyebrows shoot up, but logically he knows Sam's not going to flake out on this. 

"Okay, pal." He gives his latte to Steve, guides him by the elbow to the theater viewing room, "You take this, I'll get our guy." 

Steve still looks worried but grins a wide one at Bucky, _"Our_ guy, huh." 

Bucky rolls his eyes, "Oh, come on."

He leaves Steve in the gallery and heads off to the locker rooms. It's not just dumb luck that he finds Sam there; Bucky's had a few meltdowns in there too.

Sam's pacing behind the very last row of lockers, mumbling to himself.

"Knock knock," Bucky says and raps lightly on a locker door. 

Sam's shoulders drop with a sigh, he looks so lost and frayed. "Fuck," he says, nips on his fingernail, "I'm nervous. Oh my god. I'm real fucking nervous."

When Bucky passes the latte over, Sam's hand shakes. "Come sit with me," Bucky says and sits down on the bench, patting the space beside him.

He can tell exactly how nervous Sam is when he obeys instantly then slumps forward once his ass hits the bench. And he keeps whispering, "Fuck, fuck, fuck." like a beautiful, potty-mouthed sailor. 

"Hey, can you take a sip of that fuckin' latte and watch your mouth?" Bucky nudges him with his elbow. It works, Sam snorts and rolls his shoulders back. Bucky sees a little of the tension leave his body. "That's better." He takes the cup back from Sam since Steve now has his, "I don't have cooties—now tell me what's going on."

Sam groans, lets his head fall back as if the answers will fall from the ceiling. It's weirdly cute.

"Man. There's a lot of shit riding on today. If I fuck up…" Bucky hands the coffee back, and Sam takes a sip instead of finishing his sentence. 

"I remember when I first saw you work, you were doing an airway puncture in the back of an ambulance—I wasn't really speaking to anyone, so I didn't know your name—but I remember thinking I wish my hands were that steady, I wish I could always be as calm as you were in that moment."

Sam's still looking down at his hands; Bucky doesn't think he's seen the cut on his lip. 

"Her name was Nicole Weiler. Bee allergy," Sam says, a small smile now appearing. 

"She was clutching your scrubs so tight, and you just kept singing… what was the song?" 

Sam hands the latte back, and Bucky takes a sip this time. He unfolds the bagel and holds it out for Sam, who doesn't hesitate to take it. So Bucky was right, he's starving. 

Sam nods, his smile fond, "Change is gonna come, Sam Cooke," he says, "My daddy sang it to me when I was a kid." 

"Yeah, that's the one, it was stuck in my head for the longest time after." He declines the bagel when Sam wants to hand it back, "You're an amazing doctor, Sam. This is nothing. This is pie. You've got this."

"I know…" Sam says with just a hint of snark, just a fine edge of teasing.

Bucky throws his hands up and spills coffee in the process, "Then what are we sitting here for, man??"

Sam laughs, rubs his face, "Alright alright."

"Finish these and get prepped," Bucky says, "We're all rooting for you, Golden Boy."

Bucky should have gotten up first because Sam turns to him with a smile that quickly falters when he sees Bucky's lip. 

"Barnes…" Sam starts.  
  
Bucky shakes his head, "It's fine now."  
  
Sam has to go, so he can't stay to say what he wants to since it'll be a mouthful probably. "Christ." He lingers in the doorway, staring at Bucky.  
  
"Go!"  
  
"Fine!!"

His shoes squeak on the marble floor and Bucky's left grinning at a row of lockers.   


  
Up in the gallery, Sharon has saved a seat for Bucky next to her, and he sits down. Steve is down in the O.R with Sam and seems just to be holding the little girl's hand, talking to her through the mask.  
  
She's still grinning when he places the plastic mask over her face, and a couple of seconds later, her little eyes start fluttering closed. Steve lets her hand go, and before he leaves, he gives Sam's shoulder a gentle squeeze.  
  
Sam's standing next to Okoye, rolling his neck back and sideways and doing a quick, nervous shake out.

Steve has joined the rest of them up in the gallery now, and when they're ready to start, Sam takes a deep breath and winks at them. Sharon throws him a thumbs up.  
  
"My boy," Erik says proudly, accompanied by a fake sniff. Sharon nudges him, but she's also got that proud parent look on her face.  
  
Okoye gives the go-ahead for the procedure to begin. Bucky thinks his heart is about to pop out of his chest. All four of them shift forward in their seats.  
  
Sam gets to work on grafting the skin from Amalia's leg. It's delicate work, intricate, and Sam's forehead is creased in concentration while Okoye directs gently from beside him. Their voices are only low murmurs through the speakers, and Bucky can hear Sam breathe if he listens carefully.  
  
He's calm now, Bucky can tell from every move Sam makes that he's found a quiet spot in his mind to go to, not totally dissociative the way Bucky does, but a serene focus that allows his hands to stay steady.  
  
Sharon notices, too, "Goddammit. That control." They watch on the bigger screen as Sam carefully slides the scalpel along a curve without waver.  
  
"Ten bucks says Parker passes out." Steve points to one of the new interns who already looks a weird color as he stares at the operating table.  
  
"I'll take that action," Sharon says.  
  
Bucky makes a face at them, "I've seen him hold a severed arm for Stark, blood dripping on his shoes and shit. Twenty says he stays put."  
  
"Yeah," Erik leans forward, looks at Bucky like he's a moron, "And then he threw up 'till the next day, fam. That boy is flat on his back. Give him twenty minutes."  


  
About an hour and forty-five minutes in, Sam starts humming a tune. Steve catches Bucky, grinning like a total idiot. Bucky realizes Sam not only does it to stay calm but now nearing the end when he knows he's got it in the bag, he singing because he's excited.   
  
It's pretty infectious. The nurse next to Sam—the one who always sings his backup—starts humming too, then the anesthetist starts. Okoye's giving them a quirked-up brow, but her eyes crinkle in the corners.  
  
Sam's voice stays low, coming through the speakers all rough and sweet, and Bucky's arms are covered in goosebumps. It's an old song, something from way back; Bucky has noticed Sam likes the classic stuff.   
  
A couple of seconds later, Sharon starts snapping her fingers and swaying along, and the rest of the guys start singing too. Bucky can't sing for shit, but he's thoroughly enjoying himself watching.  
  
By the end of the procedure, almost everyone in that O.R is singing while wrapping it up. Amalia's vitals are great, grafting went smooth, and when Sam finally puts his suture needle down, he throws his hands up in victory at which the gallery and O.R both erupt in applause.  
  
It's one of those surreal moments, ecstatically happy and wonderous, so Bucky's thrown when he realizes despite everyone's eyes on Sam, celebrating his success, Sam's eyes are on Bucky only.   
  
Steve's rubbing his shoulder against Bucky's, making stupid suggestive eyebrows in Bucky's direction.  
  
"Christ, Rogers." Bucky drones, but he's failing to ward off the smile that slowly creeps onto his face.   
  
  
Later, when he's back on his shift—after helping Parker off the bathroom floor, twenty bucks poorer—Bucky takes a quick moment to Google the one line he remembers from the song Sam was singing since it's been stuck in his head the whole goddamn day.   
  
He thinks maybe he's delusional and deprived of attention from someone who doesn't beat the shit out of him for blinking. And probably it doesn't mean shit, it's just a song, but he feels a little dizzy.

Google throws the lyrics out, and he doesn't know what to do with it, except stare at the screen.  
  
_"Just one look and I fell so hard in love...."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [glitter-cake20](https://glitter-cake20.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No special warnings for this one

A couple of days pass, and Sam doesn't get to see Barnes all that often. They're on different shifts, and the rain brings on an increase in car accidents, so they're all swamped. 

He still meant to talk to Barnes about his busted up lip, but he hasn't seen him or that boyfriend since the skin graft procedure. 

"He's on Heli Vac training," Steve finally informs him when they get a second to sit down for lunch. Not that he calls half a cold burger split between the two of them in a quiet hallway, lunch. 

Sam nods. With his mouth full, he asks, "Still on for Stan's tonight?"

Steve nods too, washes his last bite down with water, then helps Sam to his feet, "Definitely." His face goes a little weird- the way Steve gets when he's trying to be subtle, but he's a garbage faker, so it never works.

"Man, what?" says Sam.

They start heading back to their shifts, walking side by side.

"Nothing!" Steve says, then turns right into Sam's 'bitch please' face. He relents, "I know I teased you and everything, but do you uh, do you really like him?"

Sam feels kind of miserable about it if he's honest, but only he knows that. "Look, I don't know. Probably. Maybe. Yeah."

Steve's wearing that sympathetic look, and if Sam didn't love him so much, he'd punch him in his stupid massive bicep.

"Stop feeling sorry for me. I'll get over it." Or, he thinks, Bucky will leave that piece of shit and Sam would actually have a chance. 

Steve throws a hand up in surrender when they approach his station, before Sam departs on his own, "Just checking. Don't get hurt." 

"Go get laid and get out of my business, Rogers," he calls fondly after Steve as he walks away. As he deserves, Steve hurls a scrub mask at him. 

Barnes is out on the roof like Steve said, and contrary to Sam's declaration of 'getting over it he goes to take Barnes a cup of coffee and a protein bar. He's done Heli Vac training before; it sucks enough big donkey balls without being soaking wet while doing it. 

"Fuck." Barnes hisses when he huddles under a small makeshift shelter with Sam. Their breaths are quick dissipating steam clouds in the rain. "Luckily I don't have hair anymore, imagine that shit show."

His lip looks better, and no new bruises is a plus. Sam hands over the coffee, "You gotta be freezing." 

Barnes looks delightfully surprised at the coffee and the snack, "Oh, wow, you didn't have to. They let us eat every eighteen hours or so, and we just kinda drink rainwater." 

Sam snorts, and Barnes starts giggling at his own expense, so they're just puffing out steam and looking dumb probably. 

"I can't stay long, have a cast to do in a few minutes—" Sam says

"Yeah, gotta get to the last puddle before Jackson does. Guy drinks like a wildebeest." 

Sam sputters out a laugh, shoves Barnes with his shoulder, "Shut up. Wanted to find out if…" why's he nervous now, "So the guys, us, we're all going to Stan's to celebrate the skin graft, and uhm, Steve said that… if maybe you wanted—"

Barnes leans back against the building, takes a sip while Sam falls all over himself, "You asking me out?" 

"No!" 

"No? Knew I should have kept the hair. You would have asked me out when I had hair." Barnes feigns disappointment. He's a total shit, maybe that's why he fits in so well with their group. 

Sam glares at him, soft, no heat, he thinks this guy gets enough heat. "No, I mean I wouldn't do that, you got a boyfriend." 

And maybe that's the wrong thing to have said because Barnes visibly sags, swallows like it hurts, and suddenly finds his shoes real interesting. "Do I?" he says quietly.

Sam's not sure why that feels like it goes deeper than a joke. Feels like it's got years of questioning attached to it.

Equally as quietly, he says, "Do you?" 

It's cold and damp, and the air between them has now shifted from something lighthearted to something dark and heavy. Still, he feels Barnes shift closer to him under the rickety roof. 

"I don't know," he murmurs, "He left a couple of days ago." he motions to his mouth in silent admittance of what Sam's been suspecting. "Radio silence."

A wave of relief comes over Sam with the next gust of wind, and he breathes in deep. Barnes probably notices, but he doesn't comment. "You been home?" 

"Yeah. Keep expecting him to show up, but he doesn't." 

They both stare out ahead at how the wind whips the rainfall in whichever direction it pleases. 

"Got anywhere else to go?" He kind of wants to offer up his place but doesn't want Barnes to think he's meddling, or feel uncomfortable, or obligated to say yes. Still, he says, "You don't have to, but… I got a spare bedroom." 

"You're a good guy, Sam." He gives Sam a fleeting smile before the Trainer calls them all back out. He pulls the raincoat hoodie over his head as he backs away, "See you later?"

Sam remembers why he actually came out here, "Yeah! Meet in the foyer," he calls after Barnes. 

He throws a thumbs up over his shoulder, and then Sam's left standing there alone with the sure knowledge that Barnes' boyfriend beat him up. And it's not great. 

Sam's angry, he wants to put a few dents in a punching bag like Steve does at the gym, but he's got two more hours of work and then a late-night dinner with all of them, so that'll have to wait. 

* * *

Stan's is this busy little diner just a couple of streets from the hospital. The man himself is a short, scrawny old guy with a grey comb-over and thick, black-rimmed glasses. The place hasn't had a makeover since the fifties, but good lord the food. 

After 11pm it's always filled with tired hospital staff, and party-goers alike, a pot of filter coffee on each table, the smell of bacon and pancakes floating all around, good old classics playing in the background, and the walls are covered in Stan's comic book art.

It literally ticks each one of Sam's boxes, walking in there's like going home to your parents' after being away for too long. Plus now he's got all his friends around him, just finished a successful shift and his first major op. So Sam's kind of on a high.

Probably also has something to do with this beautiful buzzcut man sitting next to him, but he's not confirming or denying anything.

Erik gets a plate of sausage, hashbrown, and toast. Sharon gets her usual pancake stack, and Steve orders a bacon cheeseburger.  Sam's dying to sink his teeth into a fat dagwood and let the sauce drip all over him, he doesn't give a shit. After a week of snacking on absolute scraps, he's goddamn starving. 

The waitress turns to Barnes first. Sam doesn't miss that she checks him out, that quick sweep of her eyes, suddenly looking more interested in graveyard shift than a second ago. Sam fucking gets it. 

"Uh," Barnes flusters under the attention, his cheeks go pink, "A dagwood, please. Extra pickles, extra sauce." 

Sam's head whips to him, along with the rest of the table. They always come here, so they all know what Sam orders. 

Naturally, Sharon has that look on her face again, Steve too. 

Erik hums the wedding march ever so subtly, except it's not subtle at all since the waitress catches on. Sam kicks him under the table. 

"Two dagwood specials, and hand-cut fries coming up!" She says, all perky and lively. 

The table's quiet when she leaves, but it's like a balloon filling up with water- they're all dying to burst with laughter. 

Steve peers at them over his mug, finally breaking the silence, "So, you like dagwoods, huh?" 

And it's not funny. It's not even remotely funny, like not at all, so it must be their utter exhaustion taking over when they all crack up to the point of tears. 

Sam goes to ruffle Barnes' hair and remembers too late that he doesn't have any. He still runs his hand over Barnes' head. "My friend here's got good taste. Y'all are just jealous."

Barnes agrees, "Damn straight. I mean Rogers ordered a _burger._ How vanilla."

Erik cackles out loud, "Did that burn? Looks like that burned."

And Steve rolls his eyes, looks like he's about to climb in under Sharon's arm for protection, "A dagwood is _literally_ a burger just in sandwich form. "

Sam starts pouring them coffee, "It's literally not," he says, and then they all launch into an argument about how dagwoods are far superior to burgers. Sharon tells them twice to keep it down, and Sam's not sure when it happened, but by the time the food comes, Barnes' thigh is pressed to his. 

It's for comfort, Sam realizes. Barnes has been shooting quick looks at the door like someone's about to walk in and find him where he ain't supposed to be. He's anchoring himself, reassuring himself. He knows he's safe with Sam. 

"Finally, some peace and fucking quiet." Sharon drones, when they've each got a hot plate of goodness in front of them.

Erik looks like he's about to say something, but she sticks one of Steve's fries in his mouth. 

When they're done, they order another pot of coffee, start getting slumpy in the booth, yawning. They share low murmured talks about the interns: who will make it, who will flunk out, the casual snort about someone's on-call sex life. 

The diner runs empty after a while, and they head out. By now, they're all sleepy and ready to head home. Steve walks Sharon to her flat, Erik heads back to the hospital to wait out his next shift, while Sam heads up North with Barnes. 

"You don't gotta walk me, you know," Barnes says after a while. 

"Don't mind. Want to." Sam tucks himself deeper into his coat. "Besides, my mom raised a gentleman." 

Barnes gives him a sideways glance, "Yeah, she did, didn't she." Sam thinks he looks so young like this, too young to be doing through the shit he's going through. He looks so goddamn tired. 

He wonders if this guy even knows peace, if he's able to sleep or if it's with one eye open. He wonders how far Barnes' boyfriend went, how long it's been going on, and if anyone else knows. 

"I was serious about the spare room." He says into the cool night air, "Ain't using it since my roommate left. It's yours if you want it."

"This is me." Barnes stops in front of a building, an old brick face with flickering lights in the foyer. Barnes looks around, probably for the boyfriend's truck, then sighs, "Sam. I'm not dragging you into this shitshow, alright? It's not fair… if he ever touched you… I can't. Look, I won't forgive myself if he hurt you." 

"Yeah, and what about you, huh?"

"I've just got to figure some stuff out. Put some big boy pants on." 

He does that thing again where he's serious but passing it off as a joke. 

Sam resigns, "You got my number. I meant what I said, Barnes. You can trust me, don't go at this alone."

Just then, Barnes leans forward and wraps Sam in a sudden hug that lingers just a little longer than usual. Sam is shocked but hugs him back, mindful of his bruised ribs. His fist clutches the front of Sam's jacket, and he whispers, "Thank you." 

Sam thinks, fuck, he's probably the only goddam lifeline this guy has got. He's perhaps the only one who knows. 

He wants to tell Barnes that the number ain't just for emergencies, but he doesn't want to push it—no matter how much he'd love to pass around stupid messages with Barnes when he should be sleeping—so he says goodnight and heads off to his own place a couple of blocks away. 

* * *

Jack swallows down the rest of his coffee just as the group of doctors shuffles out the door. He watches through the diner's window as the last two depart together. 

And yeah, that  _ is _ fucking James. He knew it. He knew he wasn't going nuts. 

He pays up, gets in his car, and heads to his place where Rumlow is sure to be still parked on his couch. Guy hasn't moved in four days. 

He wonders if the news of his precious one and only cozying up to another doctor will light a fire under his ass.

Rumlow's indeed still on the couch when Jack gets there, in a wife-beater, dirty jeans, and a beer bottle between his legs. The t.v casts flashes of light over him in the dark that make his brooding face seem sinister. 

"What? My whiskey ain't good enough no more?" He asks as he hangs his coat up and flops down next to Rumlow.

"Your whiskey's finished, you big bitch."

Rumlow looks like hot shit, so Jack was going to shut up about Dr. Easy Pants, but Rumlow's also got a big fuckin' mouth that knows how to rub a guy wrong. So fuck it 

After a short pause, Jack says, "Saw your boy with someone else."

"Excuse me?" Rumlow's permanent scowl deepens to something furious.

"Yeah. Looked pretty familiar if you ask me. Ain't moping on his buddy's couch, that's for sure. "

Jack's pretty satisfied; he practically feels Rumlow fuming beside him. That'll do to get him off Jack's fucking couch. 

Still, Jack's an asshole, and he likes to seal a deal, so he says, "If I knew you were sharing, I'd have been the first to ask." That's not only a means to get Rumlow to fuck off. That boy is real pretty. 

Either way, it works. Rumlow shoots up, slams his beer down, and growls a raging, "Fuck you, Rollins." at Jack. 

But then he's gone. 

Out the door and into the night doing god knows what, but it ain't Jack's problem anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm here too: [glitter-cake20](https://glitter-cake20.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew, all the warnings here guys. please read safely. 
> 
> also, thank you so much for all your enthusiastic responses! you guys are great!

Bucky keeps an eye on Sam until he's down the hill and around the corner. He had no idea Sam lived this close to him, probably would have if he hadn't been hiding in the shadows from everything that moved. 

Once Sam's out of sight, Bucky does a quick check around the building, doesn't see any sign of trouble, and thinks he's probably stupid for feeling this paranoid about it. He just doesn't know what to do now that his every move doesn't have to be careful. He doesn't know what to do with freedom. 

The apartment's cold and empty, the way he left it hours before his shift. The bedroom door's still shut. He can't bring himself to sleep there and smell Brock. Makes him nauseous and lonely and this whole shit show is confusing enough. So he's been sleeping on the sofa. 

He swings his bag down on the couch and stares at the vacant space where they used to live. He hates it. Too open too alone, too—

There's only a brief fraction of a second when he senses something from the kitchen, in the thick darkness, but he's too late to reach for the light switch.

He sees Brock's face only by a beam of light from the street outside.

"No!" 

Brock makes a sound, deep and guttural and raw, and then he's got Bucky around the back of his neck in his attempt to run.

Bucky's struggling with everything in him to get out of the chokehold, but Brock is unrelenting, bigger, fueled by pent up, unadulterated rage. He feels it in every single part of Brock as he tries to grab hold in his attempt to get away. 

And he  _ has _ to get away. He has to. This time, if he doesn't…

"Know what it feels like being told your guy's out there—" Brock twists Bucky's one arm behind his back, "—fucking someone else. We ain't even done yet honey, we ain't even cold, and you—"

Bucky shakes his head. Trying to explain, although logically, he knows he doesn't owe Brock anything like that. He didn't do anything wrong. He can't breathe though and knows if he doesn't do something, and he passes out-

There's a quick reprieve where Brock presses him up against the wall, leaving only a small space between them while he undoes his belt. Bucky doesn't know if that means he's getting fucked or beaten, but his body's screaming at him to move, so he does. 

It hurts like shit, but he throws his head back, hard as he can, and hits Brock in the nose and good fucking god he hopes that hurt Brock just as much as his head's hurting right now. 

For a moment, Bucky's standing holding the back of his head, refusing to give way to the dizziness, and Brock's cupping his nose in his hand. It occurs to him then, in the silence thereafter, to get the fuck out, and he spins around to do just that.

He's turning the doorknob when Brock's cold hand grips the back of his neck again.

"You can't run from me." he says, pulling Bucky back to the kitchen, hands shifted to Bucky's scrubs for a better hold, "You can't run from this, I told you the only way you leave me—" 

Panic settles thickly in his throat. He's trying to unclamp Brock's hands with his one free one.

And he's still trying when his face collides with the fridge. Shocking, sharp and fast, and his body sinks in Brocks hold. He's still conscious, so he's aware that Brock's rambling on, dragging him over to the countertop. 

He manages a hapless, "Please-" before he's smashed face first into the ice-cold marble.

No time to turn his head, no time to minimize impact, no hands to protect from the blow.

"The only way you leave me—" Brock repeats, it doesn't sound like him anymore, and when he lifts Bucky up just to slam him down again, he says, "Is like this." 

Bucky can't see anymore, his head's swimming, but he manages to get his arm between himself and the counter, which makes Brock toss him across the floor like an old rag. 

He remembers that first night it happened as he hits the wall. He thinks now, what an idiot he was for staying. In the back of his mind, something tells him, this is  _ why _ he stayed. The warm blood gushing from his nose, the blood he's swallowing, the blur of red he sees, the fear for his life. This is why he stayed. He'd been avoiding this. 

He's sitting, breathing hard against the wall, and manages to open his eyes. Everything hurts now, seeing hurts, watching Brock come to squat in front of him, hurts. There is nothing left of the person he fell in love with. There's just menace behind Brock's eyes. He wonders if it was all just a show, and as Brock rears back his fist and Bucky chokes on a glob of blood, he pities himself for being so blind.

The hit comes hard, brutal, but Brock knows how to hit, so he doesn't pass out just yet. No, that'd be too easy, and Brock still has shit to say. Bucky scrambles helplessly on the tiled floor, sputtering blood everywhere, trying to get to his sling bag; to his phone.

Brock kicks him halfway there, in the side, and he has to stop and curl in on himself against the pain. Another blow comes down on his back, but Brock hasn't figured out he's going for the bag yet, thinks he's heading toward the door. 

"I gave you everything," Brock says. Bucky vaguely registers Brock wiping his hands with something, "I took you in, gave you a home when your mama said I ain't no good for you. When your fucking sister..." his voice fades off, and a moment later, Bucky's flipped over onto his back. 

Belatedly, Bucky realizes Brock hadn't been  _ wiping  _ his hand but rather wrapping his belt around his fist. 

Brock hovers over him, pulls him up by the front of his shirt. Limp and useless. Bucky's surprised to see Brock's eyes wet and red. With his face twisted, he says, "I loved you…"

And this time when he hits him, it's the kill shot he's going for. 

He hits him over and over and over, and in between each blow, he keeps repeating, "I love you, I love you, I love you, I—" sobbing, gasping at what he's doing until Bucky goes slack in his hold. 

He's still conscious enough to see through bleary eyes how Brock gets up, goes pale as he takes in the scene, hands in his hair- Bucky's blood streaking his forehead. Bucky can't hear shit anymore, but he sees Brock's mouth. "No no no no fuck."

Bucky thinks of that Jane Doe in the E.R. Her final terrifying moments and knows that it is finally his turn. 

If he could, he'd laugh. He wants to. He thinks:  _ You wanted me all to yourself, and now I'll never go away. I'll haunt you until you take your last breath, I'll torment you every second for the rest of your life, and when you rot in your prison cell, it'll be my face you see.  _

As far as comforting last thoughts go, that's a pretty good one.

The front door opens and closes quietly, the coward's leaving him here to die, and for a second he thinks he's actually going to, wants to even; it hurts so bad. 

But his body is hanging on, as sluggish and tired as he is. He's within reach of his sling bag now and manages to pull it from the couch and roll himself back onto his stomach. 

While digging around for the phone, he flits in and out of consciousness, so it takes a while. 

Next time he comes around the phone's beneath his hand and he pulls it together for a few more seconds to tap out a message.

> _ Bay Bridge Mem Health Board.   
>  _ **_Hrlp/._ **

He's about to dial 911 too with the last bit of consciousness his brain allows him, but he pukes all over the screen, and everything fades to black around him again. This time he stays under. 

At least it's peaceful there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr too: [glitter-cake20](https://glitter-cake20.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

Sam's barely slipped into his sweats and some old hoodie when his phone goes off. He's not any kind of psychic, but he knows it's Barnes. There's a giddy little part of him that perks up and grabs the phone way too fast.

His excitement is fleeting as he sees the text lit up on his screen. It's mangled, typed in haste, but the message is clear: Help.

He tries to stay calm; he tries to think rationally like Steve would make him do. Deep breaths, check yourself, breathe again. But he's out the door before he even realizes he grabbed his keys. 

As he runs up the hill toward Barnes's apartment block, he can't help this complete feeling of dread that chases at his tail. 

He remembers this exact feeling when Riley's plane went down. The ominous hush that settled thick over the crowd at the airshow. The terrifying seconds before it hit the ground in flames. Sam heard his heart beating in his ears that day; he felt every bit of sanity leave him.

And this is no different. 

Once he's there, the fear heightens. He's got no idea what number Barnes stays in, so he raps on the first door left of the entrance.

It's ass o'clock in the morning, so he gets ignored for a good couple of minutes. He thinks about screaming, but if Rumlow's still around, he doesn't want to alert him and get Barnes in deeper trouble when he's not there to help. 

A wrinkly old lady finally opens up and starts to scowl, but Sam cuts her off, "Looking for Barnes, or Rumlow, or James, uh Bucky."

"Do you know what time it is, mister??" she says anyway, because goddamn old people.

Sam takes a steadying breath, "Please. He's in trouble. I just want to help… Please." 

His mom always said he's got an honest face, and this woman must see it too. She blinks.

"Hm. Old Bucky is up in 1701." she croaks.

Sam grabs her by the shoulders, "Thank you!" 

The lady clutches her nightgown, "Oh my!" 

Sam would giggle about it, but he's running on adrenaline now, his heart pounds in his chest; it makes it kind of hard to hear or swallow or breathe. Barnes is just a staircase away.

Yet, when he's standing in front of the door, his heart seems to have seized its wild beating altogether. 

It's quiet, as it should be at two in the morning, but the air is choking and thick now, filled with trepidation as Sam knocks. 

He waits a few seconds for someone to open. No one does. Sam fills with dread. 

"Barnes?"

The door's unlocked, so he turns the knob, slowly pushes open, but he's met with only darkness and then a sound that turns his core to ice. 

Sam's heard it before but only in the E.R. A wet cough that doesn't quite make it and folds into a gurgle instead. 

He fumbles up against the wall for the light switch, and it takes his eyes two seconds to adjust before he sees the heap on the floor in the lounge. 

"Barnes!'

Sam's at his side in an instant; it's hard to make out a face, there's so much blood. Barnes is conscious, breathing albeit rugged, and his eyes focus on Sam with a jerking terror.

"It's just me, just me, it's okay." he says. Barnes relaxes. First things first, "Anything broken?" 

_ Except you. _

Barnes nods his head but brings his hand up to his nose and says, "P-possible concussion,"

"Okay." at that, Sam slips his hand underneath Barnes' shoulders to bring him up a little, so he's cradled in Sam's lap. With his other hand, he pulls his phone out and dials Erik. "Shh, it's gonna be fine. I'm here now." he murmurs while the call connects. "Shh."

Barnes is clutching Sam's sleeve, but despite the grip, his hand shakes violently. 

"Erik," he's sleepy when he answers, "Need… I need… shit, I need EMS at Faraway Heights, 1701." 

_ "You okay?" _ Erik asks, equally concerned because Sam's never been one to keep his emotions tucked away, and Erik hears it in his voice.

"It's Barnes. IPV." 

_ "Fuck."  _

Then the line goes dead, and Sam's sitting with Barnes shaking in his arms. It's shock mixed with pain now, he knows, so he pulls the throw off the couch and drapes it over him. With the corner, he wipes Barnes' face down. He left in too much of a panic to remember his medical kit. He also hadn't really been expecting this kind of damage, if he's honest. 

"Don't sleep," he says when Barnes' eyes flutter, ready to close, "Stay with me, yeah?" 

Barnes stutters out an okay, then "'M sorry." 

"No, no, no, don't say that. It's not your fault." Sam takes his pulse--not bad, but it could be better.

Barnes clings to him tighter, whimpering against his shivers now. "Medics coming, just hang on alright."

Sam's secretly panicking that Brock's going show up here again, but when the door pushes open, it's Erik, and he's got a kit. 

"Oh jesus christ," he kneels beside Barnes and Sam. Erik doesn't hide his emotions well either; his jaw is tight with it, "Bastard," he mutters to himself before starting to stabilize Barnes. 

Sam's forced to let him go and let Erik do his job. But he's fast and efficient, and instead of letting Sam just sit there, he hands him a pair of gloves and disinfectant and makes him start up a drip. 

He's good at that, he's been teaching the interns, he's quick too, and his mind is quiet when he's working. He starts humming anyway. Barnes' mouth twitches weakly in the corner.

"Barnes, can you hear me?" Erik says, and Barnes nods, "Alright. Have you lost consciousness at all?"

"Few times," Barnes croaks.

"Okay. And how long you been conscious this time 'round?"

"Since Sam arri—"

"Ten minutes, maybe more," Sam says, finishing up the IV.

Erik smiles at Barnes, "That's good, that's fine, you're gonna be fine."

Erik leaves to collect his stretcher, and Sam keeps humming until Erik returns and says they're good to go. 

It all looks surreal, soaked in twilight, time crawling by slowly, even the lights and sirens on the way to the hospital are dimmed. Sam realizes halfway there he's not only holding the drip in place but holding onto Barnes' hand, tight as he can. 

Barnes goes straight to x-rays when they arrive. Steve's eyes are wide, and Sharon is standing with her hand over her mouth as they wheel him past. Erik must have called them on the way. 

When Sam sits down beside Barnes a couple of hours later, where he's soundly medicated and asleep in his hospital bed, Sam is overcome with grief. It's unexpected; he thought he'd spent his fair share of time beside a sickbed of a person he cares about. He thought he'd be used to it by now. 

It's not cancer like with his dad, Barnes isn't dying. In fact, he'll be perfectly fine; the scans showed no sign of brain damage. Broken nose, minor fractures, and a concussion but nothing life-threatening. It's not a freak accident like Riley's all those years ago either, although it comes pretty close in the blood and gore department. 

Sam thinks it's the mere replay of events.

The rush of terror, the panic of being helpless at that moment, the inability to take the pain away; he's a doctor he should be able to take the pain away, he thinks. And in Barnes' case the pure shock of human cruelty. He's seen it before, bloody and bruised faces, but never on anyone he held dear. 

The fact that he knew what was going on makes this one even harder to swallow. 

"Stop doing that." Sharon slips quietly into the room, shuts the door behind her, and sits down next to Sam. She takes his hand and pushes a warm latte between his fingers. 

His smile feels kind of weak, "Stop doing what?" 

"Thinking so loud. There's nothing you could have done."

Sam scoffs, thinks that's entirely untrue, "We both know that's some bullshit."

"What exactly is it that you would have done, Sam? How would you have stopped this?" Sharon's still speaking quietly, but her voice is firm. 

And if he really thinks about it—aside from camping out in front of Barnes' place and intercepting the man himself—there wasn't much Sam could have done. He offered shelter, he offered help, and Barnes turned it down. Still, Sam feels broken in two, helpless and guilty. 

"I don't know." he tells Sharon as they watch Barnes' heart ticking on the monitor. "I don't like being—"

"Out of control?" She smiles at him, soft and gentle, and curls her fingers around his knee. 

Sam roughly wipes his eye, sniffs, "Yeah."

Sharon squeezes his knee and wraps herself around his arm like an octopus, head on his shoulder, feet on the chair. "Sometimes, you have no choice."

The night drags on, but Sam can't bring himself to sleep. Later, Steve comes to get Sharon for their next shift; they all look undead and ghastly, like Barnes. 

Steve convinces Sam to take a nap in the on-call room, with the effort it takes to herd a flock of sheep. He practically drags Sam there and tucks him in himself.

Sam wants to be there when Barnes wakes up, doesn't want him to be alone. But exhaustion falls over him like a thick blanket, and he lets it. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this one, just a few descriptions of injuries/bruises. And Sam gets some good news!

Barnes is out cold for three days- induced sleep to speed up recovery. 

Sam spends all his time at the hospital working and checking in on Barnes' still sleeping form.

The cops have been around twice, but not Brock. Thank the heavens not Brock because Sam doesn't know what he'll do if he sees the guy. Steve's had some pretty descriptive ideas though.

When Sam's not running shifts, he's either falling asleep in the on-call rooms or taking fitful naps at Barnes' bedside. 

Directors Fury and Carter have been walking the floors, observing how everyone works. It's fucking nerve-wracking, stitching someone up with one of them looming around. Especially since he knows they're looking for candidates for the annual mentorship program. 

Sam's been working his goddamn ass off in the hopes of being noticed and considered for it. He's not super positive about his chances since there are folks here coming from a long line of surgeons who seem like more obvious choices. 

But he's still the only one Okoye chose to assist on the graft, he's the only Res who knows how to do an internal suture, an airway puncture and who has managed a manual resuscitation. And while he's been teaching the others, the odds are still stacked against him. Probably. Maybe. 

All this shit weighs heavy on him, and he knows he hasn't been as focused as he should be, with all that has happened with Barnes, which only stresses him out more, because what if they noticed!? What if he's been slipping up they've seen and he blew his chance of getting the deal.

Sam wakes up with a violent jolt after one long, grueling shift in the Pit with Steve and the interns. It must have been one hell of a nap because he's slightly disoriented until he sees Steve hovering in the doorway. 

"Sorry," Steve looks rested, too, "Fury's looking for you."

That should concern him more than it does. "Barnes awake?"

Steve nods, "Well, in and out. Meds are really doing it, but he's conscious now." 

"Alright," Sam says while getting up, "Bathroom, Fury, Barnes." 

"Sounds like a plan," Steve looks strange, kind of giddy-happy, and the only thing Sam can think of is a hookup, which is weird because it's fucking early in the day. But he doesn't pay too much mind to it.

Still, he gets on his way, wonders in equally stressed out measures how Barnes is feeling and what Fury wants, and if he's in trouble for what happened with Barnes or if it's something totally different. He can't think of anything he's done wrong, but his stomach still feels hollow and achy.

He downs a glass of water, splashes his face, swaps his scrubs for a clean pair then heads for Fury's office. 

It's two split glass panels: Director N.J Fury printed on one and Director M. Carter on the other. The latter is not a room he wants to be called in to—Sharon's scary; her aunt's a nightmare. 

So it's just his luck when he enters, and both Fury and Carter are sitting there. He gives them a quick, kind of uncomfortable smile and sits down in the chair that Carter gestures to. 

"Mr. Wilson." She nods, the grey streaks of her hair a perfect compliment to her white overcoat. 

He nods back, looking at each of them in turn, "Directors" he says and shifts in the seat. 

Fury leans his elbows on the desk, "We watched your procedure last week. Pretty impressive workmanship, Wilson." 

Sam relaxes a little, but only just. Fury's got that way about him that has you on edge for no good reason. "Thank you?" It comes out more like a question like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

"We've seen many surgeons in these hallways over the years, excellent surgeons, Mr. Wislon," Carter intercepts and pulls out an envelope. Sam's got nothing to hide or feel guilty for, but he's starting to sweat. "Very few with quite such a disposition as yours."

Sam laughs nervously, "That a good thing?" Is this because he sings too much while he works? Are they transferring him to a broadway show instead?? Oh god fucking—

"We could use someone with your capabilities, Wilson," Fury says. "You mentioned you were planning on specializing?"

Sam gapes at them. "Yeah. Reconstructive Surgery." 

Carter hands him the envelope and says, "Fully sponsored Residency program for the next five years, under the direct mentorship of Okoye J'Kuwali. If you're so inclined, of course." 

"God, yes." Sam stares down at the white package in his hands, blinking, can't form any logical thoughts. "Why? I mean… I know…. Why me?" he finally sputters.

Carter guides him up by his elbow and toward the door because, of course, they've got shit to do, "Anyone can be a good doctor, Mr. Wilson. Not all of them are good men. You're both." 

Fury is stretched out in his chair, hands behind his head, "Don't waste this!" 

"Thank you... Thank you, sir, I… just thank you." He's at a loss for words; his brain is still trying to process what a huge deal it is, that only a select number of people have gotten this opportunity, but he remembers his manners at least.

Carter smiles at him, warm and sincere, "Your training starts next week, Sam. Good luck."

Sam makes his way back to the bathroom he used on the way there. In front of the mirror, he stares at his reflection. He sucks in a deep breath and splashes his face again. When he looks down his hands are shaking. 

He makes himself calm down, and once he's leveled out, he smiles deliriously at his reflection. He's not going to cry; he wants to though, he wants to sob and hang his head and sing prayers of thanks to the heavens.

He thinks the only way this day could get any better is if Barnes is up and smiling in that bed. 

The walk there feels like it takes forever, but everything seems a little brighter, like he's walking to the beat of a song. 

Sam knocks quietly on the door when he reaches Barnes' room, then slips inside. 

He's surprised to find Steve, Sharon, and Erik standing there with an oversized cupcake and a burning candle, and Barnes holding up a mini banner that says, "Congratulations!" 

Barnes, all busted up and blue and swollen says, "Good job, Golden Boy." and he tries to smile, but his face won't allow it. Whatever he's doing is still pretty cute. 

"Guys…" Sam starts but those emotions he always has trouble taming gathers up in his throat. He covers his eyes with his hand, and Sharon goes, "Awww."

She comes over to hug him, "We're so proud of you," she says, a little breathless because he's kind of squeezing her too hard.

"So, we got you a small cake!" Steve proudly presents the big cupcake with a huge grin, and Sam's looking at it, but he's also watching Barnes as Erik comes in for a hug too. 

Their patient has a soft look on his battered face, a small curl to his mouth, and his eyes don't leave Sam. 

"I don't know what patient hugging protocols are, but I'm down for it," Barnes says, probably when he sees Sam's hesitance. 

It's a little awkward when he leans over to hug Barnes, but only because he's trying not to press too hard or touch a sore spot or bump his big ass shoulder against Barnes' lumpy, bandaged nose.

Barnes' fingers curl weakly into Sam's shirt, and he whispers, "Thank you," against his cheek. There's a bunch of things they need to talk about, but it'll have to wait. Sam's hand cups Barnes' elbow in a gentle squeeze of acknowledgment, and he smiles when he leans away. 

Sharon's cutting the cupcake with a plastic knife and dishes out five little pieces. Steve complains about his lack of icing. 

"Big whiny baby," Erik says and with fake disgruntlement, offers up his own.

Barnes scoops fingers full of it into his mouth and chews slowly- his jaw is purple and probably stiff which doesn't really allow for eating solid things just yet. 

Sam actually has a hard time looking at him, in what must be heaps of pain, it's hard correlating the bright smile he's gotten used to with this haunted face.

The other three excuse themselves after a while. Sam knows they don't have anywhere to be at the moment, so he thinks they're pretty goddamn great to give him and Barnes time to talk. 

"The police came by, they, well, you know the process," Sam says after a while of silence, scooting a little closer to the bed. 

Barnes visibly pales at Sam's words; it makes the blue bruises marring his face stand out harsh and bold. 

He just looks down into his lap, and Sam sees a swarm of emotion filtering through. "I knew he'd come back," Barnes admits quietly. "It was too easy. And I knew that." 

Sam's chest tightens, "Still wasn't your fault." he thinks of Barnes apologizing the night he found him and wonders how many times he did that without having done anything wrong, "None of it is your fault, you gotta know that." 

"Yeah, but I stayed," he says, voice small and far away, almost an afterthought.

Sam opens his palm and lets Barnes decide if he wants to take it. He does, "I don't know much about what happened, hell, I don't know shit, but I don't think you had much of a choice, yeah?"

Barnes doesn't respond, but the way his chin begins to wobble is enough of an answer. 

"I'm sorry for what you had to go through, Buck. No one deserves that. We want to help you, all of us." Sam says, and Barnes makes a small sound of embarrassment. "I still have that spare room, you say the word, and I'll get your stuff, you stay as long you want to." He's silently pleading with Barnes not to go back home. He's  _ terrified _ that Barnes will go back home.

Barnes blinks up at him, wet streaks running down his bruised cheek. "It's all his stuff. He, uhm, I don't have anything that he didn't buy."

"Alright, that's fine, that's okay, give me your card. I'll pick up some—" but Barnes shakes his head.

"He's got everything." 

Sam realizes what an absolute goddamn nightmare it all is, what feverish hell he's had to live in. "It's okay. It's gonna be fine. We'll sort it out." 

They sit that way for a while, and when Barnes' medication starts dragging him under again, Sam pulls the sheets over his arms and dims the lights. 

Barnes grabs hold of his wrist before he gets up to leave, "You sang that night." 

Sam's not sure why that makes his cheeks feel hot. He sings all the time. "Yeah, I did, Buck."

His voice is getting thick now, slurring, "You sing when you're s-scared…. You were scared…" his eyes fall shut, and Sam's heart feels like a massive open wound, "for me." 

And now Sam's the one tearing up despite Barnes' crooked little attempt of a smile.

He wants to say he's never been more terrified of losing someone, and that there are things he's been meaning to tell Barnes, so much time he still wants to spend with him. 

Sam wants to tell him right then that he was reciting prayer after prayer that he'd be okay.

But Barnes is already fast asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

"How often did the beatings occur?" 

Bucky's staring at the straight-faced cop and wonders if they're trained this way; if the words they say feel as flat on their tongues as they sound coming out.

Bucky can't do that. He can't verbalize what has been done to him, can't make it sound the way they need it for the statement. 

"Mr. Barnes?" There's a tiny officer with the other cop, she's got long braids pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes are kind and soft, so Bucky keeps looking at her. 

"Sorry, I, uh…" he makes the mistake of glancing over at the bulky guy cop—5'10 almost six, sharp square-jawed, black hair, and his shoulders take up half the room.

"You know what," Officer Johnson, the soft-eyed cop, says to her partner, "Why don't you wait outside, alright? I got this one." 

The cop frowns at her, "It's fine—" 

"I said I got this one, Frank." She pins him with one solid look, and he throws his hands up. Bucky wishes he didn't flinch so hard at such a simple motion, but he does, and she sees it. 

Once Frank is out, Officer Johnson comes closer to his bedside, "Looks like him, huh?" 

She's awfully perceptive. Bucky hadn't realized until now that yes, the man could be Brock if you squint. Hell, they could be related.

"Little bit," he manages sheepishly. 

"Alright, well, I don't look like him, I hope?" she's smiling. 

Bucky feels his shoulders drop, his jaw unclench, "Definitely not, ma'am." 

"So can you tell me then? What happened?"

Bucky sucks in a deep, deep breath before he starts. He tells her everything, when it began, how often it was, how bad it was, and she never once blinks or otherwise indicates disapproval about him staying with his… abuser… for that long. 

He supposes it doesn't matter to them why someone didn't leave, just that whatever happened, happened. She writes while he talks, nodding thoughtfully, and occasionally when he stutters or struggles with words like "choke" or "drown" or "rape," she looks up and smiles at him, waiting patiently for him to wrangle the words from his throat. 

Bucky knows he needs to be as specific as he possibly can; he knows that he can't soften what happened because they need facts. He wishes his fucked up face was facts enough, though. He wishes she could see into his mind and know all the ugliness that lives there without him having to spell it out

By the end of it, she holds up a picture of Brock and Bucky snaps his head away from it. His chin starts wobbling.

"I just need to make sure this is the man, Mr. Barnes," she says apologetically soft. 

Bucky nods vehemently, "Yeah." 

Officer Johnson gathers up her notepad and pen and looks at Bucky. When she speaks, it's not her cop voice; it's filled with solace. "You were very, very brave, Mr. Barnes." 

Bucky's crying when he looks up, he's sure his face looks ridiculous, "Don't feel it."

"This man won't hurt you again, honey. Or anyone else for that matter. You did real good. You survived this." she says. She smiles at him before leaving the room, "Good day, Mr. Barnes." 

He doesn't feel brave. He doesn't feel like a survivor, and he's not proud of anything, let alone himself; all he feels now is unyielding sadness and shame. Perhaps it's the meds wearing thin, but when Sam finally pushes the door open, Bucky's sobbing into his pillow.

"Saw the cops—oh… no, hey," Sam comes to sit beside him on the bed, "Hey, what's up? What'd they say?" 

Bucky weeps, and Sam rubs his back, but nothing calms him until Sam pulls him closer and wraps his arms around Bucky's back. Bucky feels the hesitance in his touch. Sam knows what he's been through, so his grip is loose, and it's easy for Bucky to get away if he so wished. 

Somehow him knowing that Sam knows makes him sob harder than his bruised ribs can stand, so he clings on tighter. 

Sam gets the message and envelops Bucky in his arms. His fingers cradle the back of Bucky's head gently. "It's alright." He thinks he feels Sam's lips press a kiss to the top of his head, but he could be completely delusional right now. Slowly his gasping breaths start evening out. "You're gonna be okay." 

Where he's still slumped over in Sam's arms, he thinks, yeah, he probably will. If this guy sticks around, he'll probably be fine at the end of all this. If it ends at all.

Sam is where he is safe. He learned that a while ago. He knows that now, too, when Sam helps him to get settled again, tucking the blankets around his sides and doesn't say anything about the embarrassing patch of tears Bucky left on his scrubs. 

"Swelling looks better," Sam says, then his fingers come up to check the cut on Bucky's cheek. He doesn't flinch away this time, instead, he finds it hard not cant his head sideways and lean into Sam's warm fingers.

"How long are they keeping me?" Bucky's voice is rough; he surprises himself a little. 

Sam's raised brow is kind of comical, "Long enough."

"My shifts," 

"Are fine. We got a temp in from Jersey."

"Ug, Jersey." Bucky groans, and Sam laughs, which is totally worth the pain in his jaw when he smiles back. "Yeah. Okay." he lets his head fall back into the soft pillows. 

"Buck," Sam says, he's filling up Bucky's I.V, "You got anyone we can call? Family?" 

"Uhm, no."  _ Not anyone who'd pity this mess I got myself into, not after they warned me _ , "Not nearby no—all out in Indiana. I don't… they… they don't have to know."

Sam nods hesitantly, "Alright, man. Get some sleep. I put the good shit in your drip." 

It is the good shit indeed, Bucky feels his limbs go liquid and warm. "Thanks, Sammy," he mumbles before his eyes start falling shut. And, before they close completely he sees Sam grinning down fondly at him.

He dreams of a big backyard, evergreen grass, and a tree swing—a young girl named Becca. There, the sun is warm, and its rays beam through the trees onto the blanket where they're playing with dinosaurs and barbie dolls and a potato toy from a children's movie.

There, nothing bad happens. 

And perhaps that's why his mind goes back there so often because the terrible things never come. He doesn't leave his mom and Becca for a man who promised him handfuls of glittering stars then crushed them while Bucky watched.

* * *

The next couple of days are wild. 

Scott, one of the EMT's, knows a guy who knows a guy who, well, knows a guy who works at a bank. 

The guy somehow gets Bucky's old account frozen, and the monies transferred to a brand new one, which he has sole proprietary rights over. His money is his own again, and there's a little streak of vindication running through him when Scott hands over the new card. 

After that, Steve and Sharon get him some new clothes, practical, comfortable stuff like sweats, jeans, hoodies, and t-shirts. And one very hot leather jacket. Brock didn't like those, said Bucky didn't need that kind of attention on him. 

Sam and Steve are talking about how they've rigged up Sam's place for a roommate, and they're super excited about the whole prospect, Bucky loves watching their faces light up when they talk about it. It's a weird feeling letting himself be excited, but he is. It keeps his mind off Brock and everything else. 

When it's quiet, and none of them are around, he wonders if Brock misses him, if he's sorry  _ now.  _ Or if those words still won't pass his lips. He wonders if he's been arrested yet, if that jail cell is as cold as their apartment was when he left Bucky there bleeding. 

He thinks about all these things, and he fills with rage so unfettered it makes him shake. So it's best to keep occupied. 

He's healing up too. The swelling has gone down, he's just black and blue now, according to his visitors. He knows he's got a huge bandage over his nose, and he still bleeds sometimes, but he hasn't managed to look at himself in a mirror yet. He's not sure he wants to see that. 

He's started walking around the hallways, mostly looking for Sam and getting scolded for being out of bed when he finds him.

When he's not annoying people on their shifts in his hospital gown, purely out of boredom, someone brings him lunch or dinner. 

Erik brings dumplings and spring rolls, he makes Bucky laugh so hard and unattractively his entire face hurts, and his nurse ends up chasing the guy off. 

When Sharon comes by, she brings along chai tea, cookies, and a magazine, and they page through it and daydream of going on a shopping spree. She says he needs skinny jeans and combat boots. He's not entirely opposed to the idea.

Steve will pull up a baseball game he missed and watch it with Bucky. Sometimes he gets far too invested and Bucky forces him to turn it off and do breathing exercises. Sometimes, he passes out right there in the visitor's chair instead of heading to the on-call rooms. 

Sam though. Sam's a totally different story yet exactly the same. He brings food too—healthier food though, food that promotes healing—he always checks Bucky's wounds before they eat, and he makes Bucky laugh and above all feel safe. 

But it's something in those quiet moments when the laughter dwindles, and they're left staring wordlessly at each other- there's something there. 

Sam looks at him differently than the others do, he looks at him softly, and it's sometimes a lot to take in. Bucky hardly ever holds his gaze because once he starts noticing the way Sam's lashes curl, his brain goes straight into panic mode. 

He's been so scared to look at anyone, too frightened of Brock catching him even if it hadn't meant anything, even if Bucky was literally just looking. Brock turned the slightest glance into a jealous tirade about how Bucky should go for it if he thought he could do better. 

So he's not used to looking, he has never wanted to look before, and he probably shouldn't look now either. But because he can, he does. There's no one to be scared of anymore. There's no one to shove him around and call him a whore. 

And perhaps he doesn't make it completely obvious. Maybe he only really looks when Sam's distracted. Then he lets himself notice the curly lashes and the small little dimple beside Sam's mouth, the gap between his teeth, how he scrunches up his nose when he laughs…

This all makes it so that he goes to bed without anything keeping him from a deep slumber: He's got clothes, his own money, a safe place to go when he leaves here, people who care enough to bring him hot dumplings and tea, Sam's wrinkled nose, and some whale-tranquilizing medicine. 

No Brock or eggshells or blood in his mouth.

He thinks with some adjustments, this could be the backyard with a tree swing too. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they were roommates!!!

"You do not have to carry me up these goddamn stairs, Rogers," Bucky tells Steve, who is very obviously not listening to him. 

Sam's dragging behind with Bucky's plastic bag full of clothes. He just came off a long shift, and it's showing. 

"They're three steps!" Steve's adamant. "I'll manage."

They make it to Sam's loft, and Bucky would really like to look around, but he's tired, so he settles down on the couch. 

Steve sets the rest of their things down and heads out shortly after to get his own bit of rest before the next shift. 

Sam's in the kitchen packing some dishes away, "We got your spot all set up," he points to the upper loft floor, "One with the big bed's mine, though." He winks at Bucky over his shoulder.

It's a really nice place, small but cozy; Bucky has always dreamt of living in a loft apartment. This one looks out over the city, it's a weird oval shape too, so what would be a flat window in regular apartments, is curved and spans half the size of the lounge. Must be a sight at night, he thinks. There's a plushly cushioned grey couch with huge pillows and a couple of throw blankets, raw wood coffee tables on each side, t.v stand of the same design, and surprisingly a piano against the opposite wall. 

Bucky's admiring the painting of New Orleans on the wall behind the piano- all the colors of the rainbow, people dancing in the street, trumpets, banjos. 

"My favorite place to be," Sam says.

Bucky faintly recalls the feeling of having a place like that. "Home?"

Sam's leaning back against the counter, drying his hands, "Nope. Close enough, used to go at least once a year for the festival. Man, you can't explain that vibe."

Sam doesn't have to explain; his face lights up when he talks about it. He comes to sit on the couch with Bucky, pulls his legs under him, and tugs a throw blanket over his feet, now bare. 

"One summer, during college days, a bunch of us took a trip down there. We were so hyped for that festival, got us some crazy outfits, feathers, crowns, fuckin' colorful pearls—yeah laugh; I'm a damn vision in a pink feather boa—"

Bucky snorts, "I'm sure you are." 

He points at Bucky, "—don't make me blush. Anyway, so we're all dressed up, we're tipsy, you got half-naked people all over, we're hyped man! Don't care what the weather says."

"So it started raining, huh?"

"It fuckin' started raining!" 

Bucky leans his head against the couch, watches as Sam tells the story, all animated and fond, "What'd you do?"

Sam shimmies down, kicks some of the blanket over to Bucky, so he can close his feet too. "Well, we ain't quitters. We partied. All night, half of the next day, too, wet as shit." He lays his head down too, closes his eyes, "Best summer of my life."

Bucky's smiling, can't help it, as Sam drifts off into a much-needed sleep. Bucky waits until Sam's out cold to go take a look around upstairs and pack his stuff away. 

In his room—which is much more of an open plan with a divider between—he finds a chest of drawers with a few more clothing items. He'd feel shit about it, but at least they bought it with his own money. 

The bed is neatly made with plain, pale green and white linen with a few towels stacked at the foot of it. Sam's room is done up in navy and white, and there's a canvas print of him and a gorgeous woman, professionally taken. Judging from their body language, he thinks it's probably his sister. 

He avoids the bathroom because he's still not really ready to see his own face, thinks if he waits long enough, the bruising will have dissipated some, and he'd be spared the actual horror of it. It's impractical, but in his mind, it works. God knows there have been enough reminders of Brock left on his body; he doesn't need to see the very last one. 

It's not until his stomach gives an unearthly growl that he realizes he's starving. Not sure where half the things in Sam's house are, and not wanting Sam to have to cook anything when he's tired, Bucky orders in. 

He gets Indian. Sam said once how he could eat that every day of his life, so Bucky thinks he'd like that. 

The food arrives a little while later while Bucky's been staring out the curved window at the flickering city lights. He was right before, it's real pretty, like little colorful smudges on the glass, just like Sam's painting. 

Bucky arranges Sam's takeout box on the coffee table, with a root beer, so it'll be ready when he wakes up and sits down on the couch with his own food. He finds a remote that's probably for the t.v and turns the volume down low while he eats. 

It's still kind of a chore to chew with his jaw all fucked up, but he manages with small bites. He finds himself glancing over to a sleeping Sam every so often. He wonders if Sam plays that piano at all, or if it's just there for decor, he wonders if the smiling blonde guy in the photo on Sam's fridge is Riley that Sam mentioned a while back, he wonders if Sam talks to his family often. 

He wonders why Sam's so good to him, above all else. 

And then, despite the previous answer, he wonders if he's even worth it at all.

"Oh god, are you watching Dirty Dancing?!" Sam's sitting up, rubbing his eyes, and Bucky's eyes dart away from him and to the t.v screen. Which, of course, is playing the epitome of cliched chick flicks. 

"Listen," he shovels some rice into his mouth, "Have you seen Swayze's abs?" It's a lame attempt at a joke to deflect from the fact that he'd just been staring at Sam while he was asleep. God. Creepy much?

"That my friend is a fair point. What's this?" Bucky's about to answer when Sam flips the foam lid open, "You got us curry??" he peeks over into Bucky's box, incredulous, shocked.

"Yeah. That okay?" He's terrified for a second that he's totally fucked up: assuming what Sam would want to eat, wasting cash on takeout when there's food, not dishing up on a plate, starting without Sam… 

But Sam's practically beaming out of his skull. It's okay, he realizes, and the tension uncurls from around his shoulders and makes it so he can breathe again. It's a thing he'll have to relearn; not everyone's going to lash out at him for doing shit wrong. 

"Christ, I told Steve this roommate thing was a great idea, but  _ man."  _

It still stings a little to smile where his lip's busted up, but Bucky can't help what his mouth does, "Shh, the cabin scene's coming up." 

Sam crosses his legs and starts digging. His cheek is stuffed when he says, "Lord bless the cabin scene." doing a little salute to the T.V and Bucky laughs out loud. 

They watch the stupid movie to the end, providing audience commentary throughout, and cheers with the crowd when Baby finally gets the lift right. 

And then another one of _those_ moments happen. 

They're laughing at something, and in the midst of it, they both kind of pause, looking at one another. He doesn't know what the hell it is but it makes his head feel stupid and fuzzy and like nothing was ever wrong in the world. 

Sam's lips parts like he's on the verge of saying something. But once he blinks his thick, curly lashes and looks away, it's over. 

Bucky's probably still a little doped up, but he swears that's guilt he sees flitting across Sam's face. 

After everything Sam has done for him, what the hell does he have to feel guilty about?


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this thing might be longer than 20 chapters, but I'll confirm closer to the end. you guys have been so great and your lovely feedback keeps me going! thank you so much :)

Sam's up at four. He barely manages to shut the alarm off, his limbs heavy and tired. 

He just wants to sleep in. The fact that it's pouring outside doesn't help at all. And anyway, he's got training with Okoye scheduled for five and he's shadowing reconstructive rhinoplasty at seven. So the bed is not an option, now or in the near future. 

Barnes' bed is empty by the time Sam's done washing up and heads downstairs. He thinks he smells coffee and toast and bacon, but he _is_ running on fumes so he could be totally delusional too. 

But downstairs, Barnes is sitting in the windowsill with his legs pulled up, watching the rain. He's cupping a fresh mug of coffee in his hands and the pot in the kitchen's brewing more. 

Sam almost doesn't want to say anything to announce his presence and disturb him; he looks so peaceful, picturesque. Beautiful despite the thick bandage still plastered to his broken nose.

Sam has got to stop this. He can't be thinking about Barnes this way. Not now, possibly not ever, but especially not now when he's just barely pulling himself together. No matter how long he's been crushing on the guy. 

Barnes, however, knows Sam's standing there, he still looks out the window when he speaks, "I'm booked off for another week. Carter said she doesn't want to see me at work." his breath steams up the window.

Sam swallows, snaps himself out of it, "She's right." 

Barnes is pale when he turns to look at Sam like he hasn't closed his eyes all night. "They uh... they arrested him last night," he says quite abruptly, off-topic, then gets up and goes to the kitchen where the coffee's ready. He fills two mugs and pushes one over to Sam, but doesn't look him in the eye.

It takes Sam a moment to grasp it. And there are so, so many things he wants to say, unsavory things, spiteful, vengeful, hateful things that he never thought could occupy his mind. He hopes the piece of shit rots away slowly and in utter misery. 

"You okay?" he says instead. 

Barnes shrugs, eyes pinned on his coffee, "Close enough." then, as if he's trying to get away from it, he says, "I made uh, breakfast rolls. Don't know if you eat that?" he's putting on a smile, but there's a horrible sadness behind his eyes.

"Shit, yeah I do, thank you," Sam tries to get his attention, meet his eyes, "Buck—"

"Don't," he snaps, but softly as if he's forgotten how to use inflection, and then it's all a shaky rambling, "I know I shouldn't be… I can't be sad not after what he did, I shouldn't be, and I'm not. Not for him… So I know, if that's what you were gonna say, I know—"

Sam comes around the counter, "If you're sad, you're sad. Ain't nothing more to it." he opens his arms, leaves it up to Barnes to decide if he's accepting the invitation, and when he does, he makes himself so small that he fits right in the center of Sam's chest, tucked under his chin. 

"I'm sorry," his voice cracks, he's shaking.

"Huh, uh. We said no more of that, remember." Sam's hand cradles his head again; the brushed spikes have grown out slightly now, soft. "You can be sad; you can't be sorry for being sad. Pick your battles, baby." 

Barnes chuckles wetly against Sam's chest doesn't seem to react to the slipped endearment; then slowly, he starts straightening himself out. He wipes his eyes on the sleeves of his hoodie and sniffs. "Christ. Fucking shit." 

"None of that language in front of our lord and savior, Ms. Angelou." Sam points to the charcoal portrait of yours truly on the shelf beside his books. 

Barnes lets out a loud laugh, and it's one of relief. 

"Steve made it," Sam says.

"Steve draws?" Barnes asks nasally and sniffly, but he brightens up as he shuffles over to look at the sketch. 

Sam starts gulping down the coffee, packing his phone and wallet, and beeper into his sling bag. "I was surprised too. He's crazy good." 

Barnes' finger runs all along the frame, "I see that," he says, and finally looks a little more content, calmer, sadness level dissipated by about ten percent, Sam would say.

Sam takes a bite of the breakfast roll, ignoring the sudden wild urge to kiss Barnes on the cheek, and instead heads for the door. "I'll see you… waaay fuckin' later, you know how it goes." 

"I do. Good luck!" Barnes looks soft, tired, set perfectly against the rainy city backdrop. 

"Call me, or Steve, or Sharon, or—"

He laughs, "Go, Wilson!"

* * *

"Again." 

Okoye's standing opposite the operating table, arms crossed over her chest. 

Sam's been simulating laser bone work for the last hour, and despite what he thinks is his best effort, Okoye is never satisfied. He straightens up again, rolls his shoulders back, resets the simulation, and starts. Again. 

He's a centimeter in when she stops him once more. 

"Ah fuck!" he sags miserably, "Sorry. Sorry," he says quickly following his outburst. The room's set at a cool temperature, but he's building up a sweat.

"There's no focus." She steps in and starts the simulation again. "You are not even trying."

Quietly Sam mutters, "I am."  _ I'm trying so fucking hard.  _

She takes the lazer from him and starts exactly the way he did. He watches with rapt attention, every twist of her hand, every slide, every little movement, and he can't for the life of him understand why his cut makes an L shape, while hers makes a perfect half moon. 

She's almost done when he sees it—the practically invisible upward curl of her wrist. 

He tries not to grin like a maniac; he doesn't have the surgical mask to hide it. But as she finishes up, he mirrors the movement, curls his wrist the same until he feels where the muscles tighten. 

She steps away from the table, hits the restart button, and looks pretty goddamn pleased with herself and tired of waiting for him to get it right. 

Sam inhales, lets the lazer rest between his fingers, and goes to work. This time it's the perfect half moon; it looks exactly like hers. He finishes the simulation as flawlessly as she did. He thinks so anyway. 

Okoye only lifts an eyebrow, then switches the simulation off. "Get prepped for O.R," she says.

His heart falls. Then again, he's not supposed to be in it for the praise. It would be nice though after an hour bent over a fake operating table. 

During the actual op, he watches Okoye and Banner work, he takes notes, tries to pick up every last thing he can from what they do. The procedure is a success, but Sam's got one splitting headache afterward. 

Sharon gets him the hallway, and they sneak out for a quick green smoothie before bailing again. 

There's a guy with a neck wound in the E.R, blood spurting all over when Sam gets there. Scott's clamping down on the guy's neck with a cloth that used to be white. Sam manages to get the bleeding under control, then gets the man calmed down and stitched up.

Another patient comes in with a migraine, screaming, and he sorts that out. There's an issue with someone's blood work, and he has to tell a family that their grandmother has about a month left on this earth. 

There are a few quiet moments in the ambulance bay where he just sits and breathes in the late afternoon air, and everything around him just sort of spins. His respite is brief as Erik's ambulance comes rushing in with a car crash victim. 

Accidents are the worst for him. It reminds him too much of Riley's fateful crash- the smell of burnt skin, crushed metal, and oil. He starts pushing nausea down right away and tries not to see Riley's plane burnt to a black crisp.

There's no time anyway; it's straight to the O.R. Okoye drags Sam in there with her and Banner, and he spends four hours assisting while they repair ruptured organs with two interns watching with huge eyes and pale faces. The woman is alive, but it looks pretty dire. 

By the end of his shift, the only thing keeping Sam from keeling over in the hallway is the comfort of going home to his not-so-empty apartment.

His place is dark, only the stove's light is on in the kitchen, the t .v's blaring quietly where Barnes is watching something. He's got one of the hoodies on that Sam picked out- the white one and the faded blue jeans Sharon got him. 

Barnes smiles the moment he sees Sam, "Hey!" he still looks hauntedly pale and worn out. Sam guesses he doesn't look much better himself as he goes to sit beside Barnes.

He's so fucking tired; he thinks this exhaustion goes straight to his bones, and no amount of sleep will fix this. And for some reason he's so close to tears he has to pinch his nose and suck it up.

"Hey, shit," Barnes says. He's shifting closer, "You okay?" his hand comes to rest on Sam's shoulder, "Wanna talk about it?"

Sam has a hard time holding back the tears now, and he feels completely stupid; why is he even crying. Holy shit?? "Shit. I don't know. I'm just fucking tired, man." He doesn't say that he feels frail and weak and really tender. Although, he guesses Barnes knows all about feeling frail and weak and tender. 

Barnes says, "Come here." and moves in for a hug. And yeah, Sam wasn't expecting that. He gives a few pitiful sobs into Barnes' cozy sweater. "Hard day, huh?" Barnes whispers, "It's okay."

After a little while of sitting there, things start to feel better. He's distracted, because Barnes is warm, and he's sweeping his hands up and down Sam's back, and he smells real fucking good. 

Sam pulls away, his head falling back, and a terrible sigh leaves him, "Fuck my fucking life," he drones. 

"Language. Maya's listening."

Sam laughs tiredly.

Just then, Barnes gets up and goes to fetch something from the kitchen, at which point Sam notices the smell of food. "Oh god, tell me you didn't cook again!"

Barnes pauses, looks bewildered, and like he's about to run, "I…"

"No, hey, sorry! I didn't mean—"

"Fuck, I'm sorry." he brings a plate of spaghetti bolognese over to Sam. "Old habits dying hard and all."

"I'm starving, thank you, was gonna be another delivery if you didn't make anything." he takes the plate, "But you know you don't have to do this."

"I do." he says then looks at Sam, "Guess I'm trying to say thank you. For everything. You didn't have to either." 

Sam's throat feels tight, "Yeah, I did. Of course, I did." 

Half a smile curls around Barnes' lip corners, Sam smiles back. And they're stuck in one of those moments again that makes Sam want to lunge forward and kiss him. He feels like shit for wanting to do that. 

"How'd training go?" Barnes asks and leans back on the sofa again, a little closer to Sam while he eats.

Sam makes a disgruntled noise through a mouthful of spaghetti. Which makes Barnes chuckle, "That bad?"

"You know when you're a kid, and you draw a picture, and you think it's the greatest shit you've ever pulled, and your teacher just goes 'hmm.' That, but ten times worse."

"You know what Erik would say?" 

Sam's already laughing, "What would Erik say?" 

Barnes pokes his fingers into Sam's ribs, makes his voice deeper than usual, "You wanna cry titty baby? Wanna cry about it??" 

And Sam cackles out loud and probably really unattractively, dropping a string of spaghetti on his scrubs. "Why's that so accurate, though?" 

Barnes laughs too, looks pleased about making Sam laugh, like maybe that was his plan, "Because it's true. But seriously, they chose you for a reason. She knows what you're capable of, but she's a hard ass, you know that." 

"Yeah shit." he turns to look at Barnes, "How you doing by the way?" The black and blue bruises around his eyes have started to fade, the cut still looks painful but not inflamed the way it had been the first couple of days. And his lip still bears one small bruise on the side. 

"Dizzy, nauseous, regular concussion shit," he motions to his face, "This." 

"It's looking a hell of a lot better."

"Yeah, think I'll be alright," he says, smiling. 

They're both pretty tired once Sam's done eating, so they put another movie on, and it doesn't escape him just how close they're sitting. Sam doesn't mind all that much after being alone for so long, and he thinks the same is probably true for Barnes too. 

So when he falls asleep with his head on Sam's shoulder, Sam stays right there, pulls the throw blanket over them, and drifts off with his cheek against Barnes' hair a while later.

It feels such an awful lot like being with Riley felt, and his heart aches dull and deep for it, for the memories. It burns with longing inside of him. He's been alone for such a goddamn long time, and the way Barnes sits next to him makes him  _ want. _

But Barnes doesn't need some dude trying to swoop in, he ain't some damsel that needs saving, he doesn't need someone to make it all better. He needs a friend right now. 

And Sam's damn good at that shit. He's got that down to a fine art.

Sam is very capable of ignoring how his heart's acting out from sitting this close, how he feels all tingly down his spine. 

But he's no idiot. He's been gone on this guy since the first time they spoke. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for this one: mentions/flashbacks of non-con, dissociative behavior, and trauma response.
> 
> my goal from now on is not to make Sian cry with these updates, and I have already failed miserably. grab the tissues, girl.

It's two weeks after he's moved in with Sam—for the time being anyway—and Bucky thinks he's doing pretty well. 

He's back at work, his face only looks 60% like a mobster movie, he's getting a little more sleep these days, and he and Sam are getting along real good.

The marks on his face mean people stare, and he knows there's been speculation about what happened, which he can't do much about except keep his head up and keep going. Aside from the staring and getting back into this rigorous work schedule, he thinks he's been doing just fine. 

He's happy to be back with the people who have been so good to him, it's nice to see Sharon's smile, watch Steve chat up the elderly patients, and hear Erik's jokes. The fact that he's living with Sam doesn't mean he doesn't still notice the guy. 

It doesn't mean he hasn't been feeling weirdly attached. Doesn't mean he hasn't noticed the way Sam looks at him sometimes, the way he quickly looks away, the way he's always cataloging all of Bucky's scars when Bucky talks like he's making sure he hasn't gained another. 

It makes him so sick with guilt he can't stand it. 

He's such a goddamn idiot. The first guy who throws a little kindness and attention at Bucky and he goes all sweet on him? Stuff like this makes him think maybe Brock was right all those times he said the things he said. And honestly? What's Sam going to want with him anyway?

He needs to remind himself that Sam is awfully kind to him, and he's a total goddamn fool for seeing something that's not there. For wanting more. Because it's merely wishful thinking.

But it gets a little harder each day to pretend. Sam's so goddamn sexy, he's all smooth and funny and talks real smart shit that Bucky can't help but gawk at. He's thankful that the others have been on heavy shifts or they'd have noticed.

He's stationed in the E.R with Sam again, and it's been a wild morning, but he's filled with adrenaline; in fact, he's been steamboating it since he came back, running on energy he hasn't known in a while. He'd been expecting to have a hard time, like the first couple of days, but he's doing okay. 

Too okay, almost. 

Still, he goes with it, rides it out. If he keeps busy, nothing sneaks in and catches him off guard; if there's no quiet time, the flashes of memories won't bombard him. So long as he's on the move, he's okay. So long as he's so exhausted by the end of a shift that he passes off into an unbothered sleep, he'll be fine. 

Sam notices. Because, of course, he does. 

He's smiling, half incredulously when he comes over to Bucky, "Hey man, uhm, I've been meaning to ask if you're seeing someone after what happened? Like a professional?" he's looking at Bucky a little strangely. 

Sam's got his lab coat on today since Okoye dragged him into an O.R again during lunch- he looks terribly handsome. Bucky has to look away. He's taken aback by the question, though. 

"I'm okay, didn't think… you know if I felt  _ worse  _ about it sure, but," he says. It was just that one morning. He hasn't cried since, he hasn't even thought about Brock or what happened all that much. 

"Yeah." Sam looks skeptical, kind of worried, "We got a lady upstairs, Dr. Potts. She's great, I see her sometimes."

"You okay?" 

"I mean, sometimes I'm not, that's why I'm saying go see her if you want to."

Bucky's looking at Sam, wondering what he sees the therapist about. He always looks so put together. "I swear, I'm fine." 

That only makes Sam sigh like he knows something Bucky doesn't, as if he somehow knows Bucky is definitely not fine. He concedes anyway because they have to get back to work. "Alright, man. Just… take it easy, okay?"

Sam starts walking away, but Bucky catches his wrist, He swallows hard before he speaks because Sam is goddamn beautiful. Part of him wants to pull Sam even closer than this, close enough to taste. The other part of him shies away from it, cowering in a dark pitiful corner of his mind where all the broken things are. 

"Thank you, Sam," he says instead, real quietly. 

And there's a smile like early morning sun breaking through soft and warm on Sam's face, telling Bucky everything is safe. 

Sam says, "Anytime, Buck." and winks at him.

He's fine. 

He's fine until a drunk guy comes stumbling into the E.R that night. Bleeding and reeking of booze and stale cigarettes. 

And suddenly, all Bucky sees in front of him is Brock coming back from the bar, trying to fuck him. He tries to calm the guy down, tells him to sit on the bed, to please cooperate so they can help him, but his voice is far away to his own ears, and his eyes won't focus. Brock's holding him down by his neck while he fucks him, and all he smells is bitter booze and fucking cigarettes so when his patient moves to get up and comes toward Bucky too fast, and that waft hits him, he feels nausea push up from his gut. 

He remembers the hurt, confusion, humiliation, how he stank just like Brock for hours even after he showered, how Brock pretended nothing happened the next day. And Bucky makes a beeline for the ambulance bay. 

He pukes the moment the fresh air hits his lungs, thankfully into a nearby bin. 

By the time Sam gets to him, he's slumped down against the wall, head in his hands. 

"What happened??" Sam crouches down in front of him, "Hey, look at me, you okay?" 

He fears if he opens his mouth, he'll puke again, so he motions for Sam to help him up. 

There's no time to explain because the drunkard is busy kicking up one hell of a fuss inside. Bucky and Sam dart back in to get him subdued before he gets hold of a scalpel or something. 

Things only get worse from that point on. 

The next afternoon they're both at home and kind of giddy with the time they have off work since it doesn't happen so often. Sam's still looking at him weirdly, the way people look at a squeaky carnival ride, but he's put some music on, and they're talking loudly over it about baseball and college and anything except what happened at work. 

They're both smiling, each nursing a beer, hanging around the kitchen counter when Sam decides it's time for shots. He makes the mistake of shutting the cabinet a little too hard, and before Bucky knows it, he's crouched down on the floor, covering his head with his hands. 

He's making some awful, embarrassing sounds like a whimper rattling out of him, both because he's shaken up and because he realizes Sam must think he's afraid of him. 

"Shit shit shit, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Sam kneels beside him, puts his hand on Bucky's knee. 

Slowly he lowers his hands, "Fuck, no, no, don't say that, it wasn't you." Sam is nothing like Brock. Nothing. Bucky feels like a goddamn asshole.

"Buck," Sam says, "this is what I'm saying," he tips Bucky's chin up, so their eyes meet, "You need help. You're not okay. This is not okay. Let someone help you."

But help means therapy. Therapy means articulating all the shit that's been done to him again like he had to do with those cops. And he can't bring himself to even think it, or he pukes. Therapy means admitting his boyfriend raped him, and he just lay there. 

Therapy means admitting that he clocks out so hard that minutes pass unaccounted for. That could cost him his job, his career, his new friends. 

For a second Sam's hand curls around his chin, soft, patient, and Bucky allows himself to lean into it. 

"I can't." He whispers. 

He doesn't have to look to know that Sam sags with disappointment. 

The mood is sort of ruined now, and he's nursing one hell of a headache, so he helps Sam clean up, and goes to sit in the windowsill with a coffee while Sam studies a book Okoye gave him. 

He's looking out over the city, but he's far away in a big backyard with a tree swing.

Over the next couple of days, he taps out while tending to a simple suture, he pukes twice: once after running headfirst into a man wearing the same cheap cologne as Brock, and then again when staring at a sink full of water too long. And he snaps at an Attending, which is just fucking great.

At work, he avoids Sam and the others, spewing his old excuses from before he knew them. When at home, he still cooks for Sam and leaves it covered with tinfoil in the oven. He dirties a second plate to make it look like he ate too then heads straight to bed, where he stares at the wall since he's stopped sleeping altogether. He's basically living on energy drinks and coffee because the moment he closes his eyes, Brock's breathing in his face. 

He thought he'd be the one haunting Brock. It turns out it's the other way around. 

* * *

It's late one night, deep pitiful hours for Bucky when he's startled from his sleepless daze by the first few chords of a song coming to life by piano keys.

Bucky's drawn out of bed, unable to ignore the way the music echoes through the quiet loft as if every note spirals around the staircase and guides him down. 

He doesn't think he was ever quite ready for the sight that meets him.

Sam's playing, head bowed, shirtless, back facing Bucky as he approaches. The light above the piano is the only one on, and Sam's sitting in a pair of drawstring pajama bottoms, his feet are bare on the pedal, and Bucky is positive that he's never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 

Bucky doesn't recognize the song Sam's playing, but it's filled with sad undertones and sorrowful long notes, it's in the way he plays too. He's watching his hands, but he's also someplace far, far away.

When Bucky comes a few steps closer, he sees the picture of the smiling blonde man from Sam's fridge, Riley he thinks, now stuck to the music rack. 

Sam notices Bucky behind him and shifts over to make space on the bench. 

It's only after he sits down that he sees the wet streaks down Sam's cheeks. Beside the photo of the blonde man, Sam's phone is open on a news article. There is a small square picture of the same man beside the wreckage of a light aircraft. 

_ Oh, Sam… _

He's been so consumed with his own grief and his own broken thoughts, doing his best to avoid everyone, while Sam's been struggling too. He's rotten, Bucky, he's an absolute asshole.

Bucky wants to say something, comfort Sam in some way, but it feels wrong, disrupting this flawless rendition. Instead, he places his hand on Sam's thigh and watches him play. 

Sam feels the music inside of him; it's evident in the way he plays. His hands are liquid, fluid, perfect. Long fingers running smooth sweeps over the keys, feather-light; Bucky wonders what those fingers would feel like caressing his skin just the same.

When he finally rounds it off with an exquisite cadence, Sam draws his hands away from the keys and rests them folded in his lap with a soft sigh. 

Bucky is equally as quiet when he speaks. He says, "You don't sing when you play."

Sam inhales, lifts his head, "Riley said the music I play speaks for itself." another tear rolls down his cheek.

"Sammy," Bucky whispers, "It does." he slips his hand into Sam's, and Sam lets him.

He's crying now, shattering Bucky's entire heart to pieces. Sam says, "Yeah? What's it saying?"

"That you're real sad; that you miss him."

The moon shines in, glinting off Sam's cheekbone as he stares out the big oval window, "It's a funny thing. After so long, you can't call it sad anymore. It's just something fond that used make you so happy, and you learn to live without it…" he sniffs, "but then you remember what it felt like, and you just…"

"You miss it." Bucky thinks that's the kind of sad he gets thinking about Becca and his mom. "I'm sorry you lost him. And I'm sorry I haven't been here, I'm sorry Sam."

Sam turns to him then, eyes flicking fast like he's searching for something, "You're here now."

Bucky turns too, so they're facing each other, and without thinking, he brings his hand up to Sam's face, cups him just below his jaw where stubble has started poking through. Sam's long lashes are wet and parted with tears, and eyes rimmed red. 

And he's goddamn breathtaking. 

Sam tips his head a little, so his face is resting in Bucky's palm, and he sighs like he's content being there. Their legs don't quite allow them to get any closer, and maybe that's a good thing because he fears he might do something ridiculous like kiss Sam. 

Instead, Bucky leans forward until their foreheads touch. 

"God, Buck…" Sam's breathing fast, his hand clasped around Bucky's. Bucky's own heart is hammering behind his ribs. What the hell.

The way Sam says his name, the way he's holding on right now, everything about this moment makes Bucky realize how much he wants this. 

It makes him realize, as Sam's finger traces over his lips (oh god), that he needs to get better. He wants Sam, and quite possibly Sam wants him back. And that douses his brain with endless endorphins, childish giddiness he'd forgotten a person can feel. 

But he wants to give Sam the best of him; not all these broken pieces picked out of the carnage. 

He wants to be better. He thinks it's time. 

So Bucky takes Sam's hand away and leans forward. He kisses Sam's cheek instead.

They stay there for a while, just gazing out the window, their hands still clasped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song Sam plays: [SATURN - Sleeping At Last | Piano Cover](https://youtu.be/OrIBlOmOx-o)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, sorry this took a while, I got busy with the SamBucky Bingo. But that's all done now and I have two more chapters ready for this story and a bunch of really sweet scenes I can't wait to share! 
> 
> This chapter is pretty mild, some bad dreams and tough days for both Sam and Bucky.

Sam doesn't know what the hell that was last night. Whatever they did—like the lurid light above the piano somehow enchanted them—has been replaying in Sam's mind the entire night. 

He thought for a second that was going to be it, that Barnes would lean in and kiss him stupid, and he'd finally be able to stop pining like a goddam loser. But then he got a cheek kiss instead, and yeah, he knows he's pretty gone just from the way he lost his mind over that. 

Then Barnes got up, said, "Goodnight, sweetheart." with his hand on Sam's neck like some goddamn love story, and went back to bed. Sam does not fucking understand. 

That had to be something, right? Does it mean Barnes is into him too? Did he want to kiss him, but he freaked out? 

Sam kicks the covers off him like a petulant child. He's up before his alarm, which is fucking crack if you ask him. Barnes' bed is made up when Sam shuffles past to shower. He's not downstairs when Sam gets there either, but there's a pot of fresh coffee brewing and a plate of breakfast in the oven—bacon, toast, and eggs—with a note.

_ "You were right."  _ there is something scribbled beside the words that Sam thinks might be a heart, but it could easily pass for a cross too, or a terrible circle. Barnes has shit handwriting. It's kind of adorable. 

_ About what though??? _ He'd forgotten what a pain liking someone is. 

Sam downs the coffee, shovels down breakfast with one hand while going over his notes one last time with the other. Okoye's wants him assisting on a breast reconstruction. This mentorship's been a different type of hell, he's not sure he's doing anything right, Okoye doesn't look impressed with anything he's doing, and he's fucking tired. 

Plus, he still doesn't know what the hell Barnes was on about in his note. 

He heads off to work anyway and rolls in there like a small tornado. 

"Woah, man!" Erik stops Sam with two hands on his shoulders. He's chewing a power bar. "You never _run_ into work, what's up?"  Sam honestly doesn't fucking know, but Erik taps the power bar in the air like he's putting a puzzle together in his head. "Barnes came running in here too." then he opens his mouth in fake surprise.

"Stop that." Sam tells him and grabs the bar away from him to take a bite, "So... You, uh, seen him?" 

"Yes." Erik glares at Sam and takes the bar back, "Heading up to Pots' office."

"Pots??" Sam says, a little too loud.

Erik's looking at him funny, "Yeah," he says slowly, "The trauma therapist… you know… for his  _ trauma?" _

A delirious grin starts making its way onto Sam's face. "Yeah, I know." So that's what he meant. He's getting help.

Erik leans against the wall with an amused frown, "He's looking good." he says as Sam starts walking away.

Sam says, "I know." but keeps walking because he knows where Erik's going with this shit. 

"His hair's growing out, got a little five o'clock shadow too."

"I know!" 

"He lights up like the fourth of July when someone mentions you!"

Sam yelps so loud that he doesn't recognize his own fucking voice, then books it around the corner real fast before Erik continues his torture by chasing after Sam. His cheeks are on goddamn fire. Erik's such an asshole. 

Still, there's a fat smile plastered on Sam's face for a multitude of reasons now. 

Maybe that's why he powers through an entire day without a hiccup, aces the breast recon with Okoye, although she doesn't say much about it, and gets lunch for everyone on call that afternoon. (It's fucking five p.m, but they'll just pretend for the sake of sanity.) 

"So," Steve says, sitting down beside Sam. Sharon, Erik, and Scott are sitting cross-legged on the pavement with a box of pizza. 

Sam quirks up a brow at Steve's obscure comment. "So… what?" 

"How're things going. You know, at home." 

"Fine. I think." Sam's not telling Steve about the thing that happened- the thing where they almost... kissed. God is that it!? Were they gonna kiss? Sam feels sweaty and fidgety all of a sudden. "He, uh, he's really nice."

Steve smiles a little devilishly, "I bet." 

"No, man. Not like that."

"Not like what?" 

Sam sighs. "Whatever shit you're thinking, okay. We're friends. We both need friends right now." 

"Oh, okay," Steve says, then, "So you think I got a shot with him then?"

And Sam nearly chokes on a mouthful of pizza. He glares at Steve while all the fires of raging jealousy burn through him.

Steve cackles out loud like a rabid hyena but doesn't say anything more. Which, Sam supposes, makes his point quite eloquently. 

* * *

The first week after Barnes starts therapy is pretty miserable. Steve finds him shivering tearily in the lockerrooms twice after a session. He's tired and pale most of the time, but Sam thinks he's started sleeping better now, at least. Passing out because your brain is 100% done is a thing Sam knows so very well. 

Barnes' struggles remind him far too much of Riley's passing and how miserable Sam had been those few days following shortly after the crash. He sees Pots too, talks his heart out about it, cries in the on-call room, and has two consecutive nights of bad dreams. 

So they're both pretty glum when they finally get a day off work, Sam is curled into a tiny ball on the couch with some bullshit playing on the t.v, and Barnes comes stumbling down the stairs at noon only to curl up in a ball too. 

Barnes presses his toes against the back of Sam's knees, and they stay there in silence for a long while until someone's stomach growls horribly.

"Jesus Christ, pal," Barnes says.

Sam's voice cracks with a laugh, "Wasn't me." Barnes pushes up with a considerable amount of groaning.  Sam says, "Where you going?" 

Barnes stops on his way to the kitchen with the blanket draped over his head like a ghost, "Well, if that wasn't either of us, then I'm callin' a fucking exorcist." 

"Don't," says Sam, "we look like shit, they'll think _we're_ the demons." 

"No fucking kidding." Barnes is pulling the take out menu from the fridge, "Just two miserable dopes, huh." He comes back to the couch and snuggles his feet under Sam's thigh. "You hungry?"

Sam shifts closer to Barnes, he puts the blanket over his mouth and makes his voice real deep, "The demon says yes." 

Barnes starts laughing enough to slump over in his seat, "Dork," he says then orders in for them. 

They continue to make demon jokes all day, Barnes answers the door with the blanket still covering his head, and the pizza guy tells him to keep the tip in this really concerned tone, Sam reads a colonoscopy textbook to Barnes like it's a romance novel and Barnes almost passes out laughing.

It's a pretty great day, considering how it started.

* * *

The second week Barnes starts boxing with Steve, and Sam is _not_ jealous. He is definitely not jealous or curious about what they get up to or itching to ask Steve if Barnes talks about him at all. That'd be so goddamn childish.

Steve's been boxing for a while to get rid of pent up energy, or just to wear himself down when he's overtired and he can't sleep for shit. Sam tried it before. Boxing doesn't do much for him; he'd rather sit and conjure up a melody on the piano.

But goddamnit, he could kick himself right about now. He'd give anything to be a fly on that gym's wall. And the thing is Steve calls Barnes up like a booty call late at night, and they come back a couple of hours later all sweaty and red in the face from exertion, and he'll just collapse on the couch like that.

And yeah, Sharon would probably say how gross it is, falling asleep sweaty and yuck, but she's never seen Barnes' face all slack and his mouth twitching from his dream or whatever. Okay? So…

Tonight's different, though.

Sam's had this song stuck in his head for days now, and so he's sitting at the piano, fucking around with it for a good long while: first playing it slow then fast, then in a different key, then mixing it with another song. At one point, he made himself laugh so loud it echoed through the loft. He was thankful then that Barnes was still out. 

About half an hour later he's got it down perfectly, with the acoustics in the loft it sounds a little like a theater performance, and he's pretty impressed if he says so himself, which is when Barnes comes back.

He drops his duffle bag by the door and comes over to the piano with slow, measured steps and leans against it, looking at Sam. 

Obviously, Sam's face heats up and stays simmering like coals. He can't look up, or he'll lose his place because he knows Barnes is all damp and in a fucking vest, and his eyes will be vivid blue with adrenaline, and Sam can't stand it.

Instead, he just hits those keys extra hard and hopes that gets the point across. Barnes' eyes are on him though, he can feel it, flicking from his hands to his face, and if Sam's not mistaken, he's smiling. Sam wonders if that smiles means he knows the song's for him. That it's all Sam's been able to think about; that he means every note, every unsung lyric.

Once he rounds it off nice and soft, he finally meets Barnes' eyes, "Hey," he says. 

He was right Barnes is smiling.

"Hey, yourself."

A silent moment drags out between them.

Barnes eventually sucks in a deep breath, and he's looking at Sam with something quietly reverent in his eyes. He moves, probably headed for the shower, and on his way, he drags his fingers along Sam's arm, leaving tiny little goosebumps on his skin.

"Beautiful," Barnes says, climbing the stairs.

Sam snaps himself out of it, "It's a great song."

Barnes turns around at the top of the stairs, and says, "Yeah, the song too."

Sam grins to himself as the bathroom door closes.

* * *

The third week is the slowly encroaching anniversary of Riley's death. Sam starts feeling it early on. The songs he plays and sings are getting substantially sadder, he loses his usual robust appetite, and he keeps dreaming of that day.

He wakes up screaming one night, calling Riley's name even after he's already awake. His own voice scares him a little with how ragged and hoarse it sounds. The pillow is clutched in his hand the way he gripped at Sarah when the first flames erupted.

"Sam!"

He hears Barnes' bare feet tap-tap over the wooden floor toward him, and he's there before Sam gets to wipe his eyes or fix his contorted face or do anything about the fact that he's sobbing.

Barnes skids into his room and crashes a little comically onto his bed—it is dark after all—and grabs Sam's face in his hands, checking him over, and once he realizes what it is, he pulls Sam into a tight embrace.

"It's okay." He whispers.

Sam curls his arms around Barnes, "Sorry."

"No shh. What happened?"

Sam's cheek is resting against Barnes' shoulder, "It's been four years, today."

"Oh, Sammy." He says, "Come here." He pats the bed and lies down beside Sam.

Sam's too tired to think about anything, so he curls up facing Barnes. "I was there."

"When he died?"

Sam nods. "He was a pilot, flew jets at the annual airshow back home. We were all there, my mom, my sister, his mom…"

Barnes reaches over and holds Sam's hand in his.

Sam continues, "The jet… something happened, a malfunction, and the engine caught fire."

"No evac lever?"

Sam smiles a little, sadly fond now when he remembers why Riley died, "There was an evac lever. If he used it, the jet would have been left unpiloted; it would have crashed straight into the crowd."

Barnes blinks a small smile at Sam, "He did it to save you guys."

"He steered it away and went down, and there was nothing I could do but watch."

"I'm sorry, Sammy." Barnes whispers. Sam stays quiet for a while, then Barnes says, "Were you two… you know, together?"

"Known him all my life, that's all we ever were."

Barnes brings Sam's hand to his mouth and softly kisses his knuckles, then whispers, "I'm so sorry."

He lets Sam cry himself to sleep, and they stay just like that all night.

In the morning, he wakes with Barnes plastered to his back, mouth in his neck.

It's the toughest time he's ever had getting up.

* * *

Week four and Barnes has had two therapy sessions every week, the dark circles under his eyes have dissipated, and the last of his bruises have faded away. He's gotten back some color in his cheeks, his hair's grown into a messy crop, and he's keeping his beard trimmed short. 

He makes the most delicious food; Sam thinks he cooks way too much but doesn't say a single word about it. Lasagna, mac & cheese (nothing like Sam's grandma though), stuffed peppers, steak and mushroom sauce, blueberry pancakes with cream. God.

When they're not eating, they're watching very graphic recon surgery videos, and Sam practices the cuts on a melon. Barnes eats the blotched pieces.

Barnes helps Sam work through the material Okoye sends him home with, if he's not making small notes for Sam to remember, he's quizzing him on the contents while he's stirring something in a pot or eating his take out.

Sometimes Sam forgets to answer because he's staring at Barnes in an apron holding a textbook and a spoon.

For some reason, that makes Barnes go red in his face.

Sam starts jogging to work to keep in shape since he's eating like crazy, and sometimes he'll pass Steve and Barnes on their way back from boxing class, and they'll share a sweaty, dumbass smile. Steve will run up ahead like an asshole and yell at them to "Get a room!!"

They both laugh about it. Neither admits that's exactly what they really want to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the song Sam plays for Buck](https://youtu.be/_pKtnhmyP3Q) :):):) ..... :)


	16. Chapter 16

There's something viciously satisfying about hitting a heavy punching bag. That is the bag's only purpose, for someone to train, for others as an outlet. It hangs still while Bucky punches his frustrations into it, time and time again.

This might be the best thing yet.

There's always a face, though- when he gears up for a hit, Bucky always sees _him._ It makes him sick the way it's so satisfying, leaves a distaste for himself in his mouth. It's not right to want to do that to someone.

He's spoken about this with Dr. Potts. She says it is very, very normal. Anger, rage, fury, are all normal emotions to experience when recovering from trauma. And by god, he feels all of them at once at sickening levels.

The anger comes when he lets the first hit fall. That satisfying reverberation within, shocking his muscles awake. He's angry then, for everything that has gone so askew. For being so happily blinded, so besotted with a man that gave not one flying fuck about him. He's angry with himself for making excuses, for abandoning Bec and his ma. Blow after blow after blow.

Then, when his arms start burning with the strain of impact, the rage seeps in. He thinks of every time Brock laid a hand on him, made him bleed and hurt and cry. Hurt him in places that'll take forever to heal, if it even can. Dr. Potts explained that he'd been emotionally manipulated too, gaslit, mentally abused. And then, when he drives his fist forward, he's enraged that he didn't fucking realize this. He's a doctor. How couldn't he see?? And he hits and hits and hits.

Blind fury comes when all these things rush to the surface in a disgusting tumult—Dr. Potts says _it's okay, let it out, be safe, but let it out, what stays inside rots, let it out._ So, he does. And this is why he and Steve come to the gym late at night when it's empty because soon after, he breaks. The hits become relentless, wild, hard. His eyes are clouded and wet, face contorted.

He thinks of the night Brock nearly killed him. And he punches harder. Left then right then left again. He thinks of Brock hitting him just like this and telling him, _"I love you. I love you. I love you."_

_ NO, you don't. You don't. You don't. You never did. I hate you. I hate you so much. You broke me. I hate you. _

He'll keep going with Steve's presence in the back of his mind, in his peripheral, somehow knowing when Bucky's had enough, and then a pair of massive arms will wrap around him from behind and pull him back from the sandbag.

There, they sink down to the mats, and he'll sit there with Steve at his back, his arms locked around Bucky and his head resting between his shoulder blades. They stay there until Bucky stops shaking.

The first night it was awfully embarrassing. He hadn't planned on breaking down, wasn't expecting all of it to hit him right in the meatiest, most vulnerable parts of him. But it hit hard and brutal, and Steve said, "Okay, alright, pal. Alright." In a deep, calming voice and put himself behind Bucky. Every night since.

And Bucky would say, "I hate him."

And Steve would say, "That's okay."

But tonight, something changes.

He hits, but the anger doesn't come. He hits harder, but there's no rage swallowing him whole. He puts all of his weight into it, thinks of the most horrible things Brock has done to him, but the fury is only a simmering ember now.

So, he stops and turns to Steve, who is tentatively fixing a pair of gloves around his wrist, just waiting for his moment to step in.

After Bucky takes his own gloves off, Steve lifts his head, eyes big, expectant, and Bucky grins at him.

"You okay?" Steve says, concern replaced by excitement now, by something that looks a little like being proud.

Bucky nods, with a lot more certainty he's had about anything of late, he says, "Yeah... Yeah, I think I am."

Steve smiles that sunshine smile at him and comes closer with his hand outstretched to Bucky. "Alright!" he says before pulling Bucky in for a rough man-hug.

Bucky, instead of gyming, watches Steve work out for half an hour, thinking he's earned the reprieve for tonight. And Sam was right, the dude could have been a cage fighter. But despite Steve's size and evident proficiency with his fists, Bucky is not afraid of him.

"You wanna come back to the hospital with me? Wait out the next shift?" Steve says when they get dressed to leave the gym.

Bucky hesitates because he'd hate to let Sam wonder where he is, that would just make him a _terrible_ roommate, that'd be so inconsiderate. Right?

Steve cackles unattractively at Bucky's pensive features, "It's okay. I get it." Then he starts up the hill to work.

"Get what, Rogers?!" Bucky calls after him, but he already knows where this is headed.

Steve turns with a spin on his heel and walks backward. When he speaks, he's full Brooklyn again, "If I had a fella like that waitin' for me, I'd wanna go home too!" and he smirks, all-knowing and devilish.

Bucky cups his hands around his mouth, "It ain't like that!!"

"Sure, it ain't!!"

But it totally is.

When he gets to the loft, Sam's passed out on the couch. Bucky smiles fondly to himself because Sam's one leg is draped over the back of the sofa, his microsurgery textbook is splayed open on his chest. His mouth's a little open and wet with drool in one corner.

Bucky kneels beside him and remembers Steve's words: _"a fella like that."_

He's quite something alright. Beautiful enough that Bucky can't stop himself from reaching out and stroking his fingers down Sam's cheek, light as a feather as if he's not even there at all. Sam's skin is soft beneath his fingertips, rough around his jaw where his beard has begun to stubble, and warm, so warm.

_ You're gorgeous _ , he thinks.

Bucky slips the textbook from Sam's grip, watching his fingers twitch for it in his sleep, and places it face down on the coffee table. He picks up the blanket that's crumpled on the floor and covers Sam with it.

Then in an unexpected moment of absurdity, he leans down and presses his lips between Sam's eyes, easing out his frown.

His heart skips like a pebble on a lake, rippling right down to his core, and he moves away quickly and quietly, breaking out in a light sweat.

Fear grips him tight all the way up the stairs and into the shower where he stands and shakes—even under rivulets of scorching water—and thinking he'll calm down as soon as his mind catches up with the fact that Brock's not coming for him.

But he doesn't stop shaking even with this knowledge.

Instead, something else completely dawns on him. It has nothing to do with Brock Rumlow and the terrifying remnants of him left behind in Bucky's mind. It has nothing to do with fear as he knows it at all.

Instead, it has almost everything to do with the man asleep on the couch downstairs.

And that's a different kind of fear altogether.

* * *

"I don't think I should be… feeling like this." He tells Dr. Potts the very next day. The feeling squeezing in his gut has been eating him up from the inside. Each time he looks at Sam or Sam looks at him; he's overwhelmed by it.

She writes something down; the early sunlight makes her hair glow like golden glitter. It's oddly calming.

"And how's that, Doctor Barnes?"  Bucky blinks, and she continues, "Happy? Excited?"

He sighs, "Yes. I just… It feels like… I don't know." And then he sags into himself, "I don't know." Because it is entirely incomprehensible why he's scared of this, why this feels like drowning to him.

"Like cheating? Like you're doing something wrong?" Dr. Potts asks, placing her notebook down. 

Bucky nods, "Like I'm doing something wrong."

"You're not. It's okay to let yourself experience emotions you had previously suppressed. As we've discussed, whatever you want is okay." She looks at him for a second, "Not knowing what you want is okay too."

_ I want Sam. _ "I want to be okay." He says, and that's the truth—more than anything he wants this.

"Well, Doctor Barnes, to some people 'okay' means _'everything is on fire, but I'm not'_ to others it means _'there must be no fire at all'_ and anything that occurs in between."

He thinks he knows what she means. That you can delve out something wonderful from the ashes of previous fires too, perhaps there's a gleaming treasure buried beneath the rubble.

The session wraps up, and Dr. Potts tells him, "Take your time. Whatever it is. But know that it's up to you."

She's right. It is up to him, and it's not like this window will be open forever. Steve said it himself, not in so many words, but Sam's a catch. Sam won't be single forever. 

Bucky thinks he might be ready since the thought of Sam with someone else feels like an icepick right through his breastbone. 

He knows for sure that is not something he wants at all. 


	17. Chapter 17

It's early afternoon, a couple of days after Sam woke up fully rested and covered with a blanket he didn't put there, reeling from a dream that Barnes kissed him. 

He's standing at the lab counter, collecting some blood work when he hears Barnes' sneakers squeak on the linoleum floors down the hall. Don't ask him how he knows it's Barnes, how he'd gotten himself to the point of cataloging the guy's steps. But here he is, foolishly. 

"Wilson!" 

Sam's face instantly splits into a grin as he turns. Yes, his eyes do a quick once over, yes Barnes looks good in that fucking leather jacket and skinnies, and yes, Sam notices his hair still wet and now curly, hanging slightly in his eyes. 

He hates this so much. 

"You know," he says, leaning back on the desk as casually as he can, "This is how people get sick." he cocks his head up to Barne's head. 

"What? How?" Barnes says, innocently fake, his nose pink from the cold outside.

Sam reaches up without thinking, slowly, and lets his fingers slide into the damp mess of curls. "This…" he whispers. He pushes his hand back, brushing the hair out of Barnes' eye, and his eyes fall to meet Barnes'

He sees Barnes' throat move as he swallows, his eyes falling to Sam's mouth, and Sam thinks he might pass out right here if he doesn't get his hand out this man's hair and divert whatever he's doing. 

"It's okay," Barnes says, shaky and hoarse as Sam's hand falls away, "I wore the hoodie." then he's looking down at Sam, eyes flicking wildly between Sam's. 

"Uhm…" Sam mumbles, then realizing that his hand is hanging idly beside Barne's, he moves his finger. It's just a fraction, but it's enough to brush against Barne's knuckles. 

Barnes bites his lip like he's holding back a smile, and tips his head down.

But he reaches for Sam's finger. 

And now their pinkies are hooked together. Jesus.

"Uhm…" Barnes says too, then snorts and goes pink across his cheeks. 

Sam doesn't know if he starts giggling because of his nerves or because they're being incredibly stupid and not acting like the adults they definitely are. He doesn't know if Barnes is giggling because Sam is. 

Still, they're standing alone in the lab, beneath ugly lurid lights, holding hands.

"I, uh, didn't see you this morning." Sam finally says, despite himself. 

Barnes looks at him smiling now, "Yeah. Went boxing. Had some stuff to sort through."

"Good stuff or bad stuff?" 

"Oh," he says looking at Sam's face like it's a map, from one corner to the next, tracing a path from his eyes to his mouth to his neck and back up, "Good stuff." he nods, "It's really good stuff."

Sam inches closer with an involuntary sway, "Put a movie on tonight and tell me all about it, huh?"

"Hm." Barnes nods, "Dumplings?" but he's looking at Sam's mouth again. 

"And the…" Sam swallows, they're standing so close, Barnes' other fingers have curled around Sam's hand, "Spring Rolls. Beer." 

"That old Denzel movie?" Barnes' voice is a bare whisper now.

"You know it…" 

Sam swears he's a second away from blowing this because he has no idea what to do. He wants to lean in and just… he's so close he feels Barnes's breath on his lips, the warmth of his body, and he can smell the fresh, early morning air on him. He can only imagine what it'd feel like to inhale just millimeters away from Barnes' neck. 

So he's not sure if he's relieved or begrudged when his pager goes off in his scrub's pockets.

And just like that, they both snap out of it and step away from each other while Sam digs the little device out. 

"Shit…" 

"What?" 

"Emergency at the front desk." Sam starts jogging, and Barnes follows. 

"The front desk??"

They skid to a stop, and Sam's jaw just about hits the ground.

"Sarah??" 

"Girl's gotta fake an injury to get her brother's attention, huh?" 

His sister stretches her arms out, her smile wide and bright, and Sam dives right into her embrace. 

"You actually fucking told them to page me? Are you crazy?" Sam says, squeezing her just a little harder.

She pokes her finger into his side, and he jerks away, which is when Sarah lays eyes on Barnes. She does a quick once over, and her mouth curls upward slowly and knowingly. Sam wonders if he and Barnes are this obvious to everyone around them; if everyone knows what's going on between them. Whatever it is. 

"Oh, hi," she says with a devilish smirk and unnecessary bright eyes, "And you are?'

Sam steps in beside Barnes, "My new roommate,"

Barnes sticks his hand out to her, "James Barnes, real nice to meet you." 

Sarah, no doubt, takes in the dazzling smile, faint bruises, and rain-wet hair and shakes his hand. "He did not tell me he had a new roommate," she says, amused enough.

"How rude," Barnes says, "You staying a while? Wanna come over for dinner? Let us make it up to you."

"Only for tonight, and I'd love to." She turns to Sam, "See? Ain't that hard asking your sister over for dinner."

Sam sighs, "You're always busy?!" 

Barnes laughs, softly placing his hand on Sam's bicep, "I gotta run, shift's about to start. See you at home?"

Sam's face heats up again, "Uhm, yeah. For sure." 

"Ma'am," he smiles at Sarah.

When Barnes' hand falls away, it leaves a blazing imprint that Sam is far too aware of. He sighs blissfully helpless, watching Barnes make his way down the hallway. 

"Oh," Sarah says suddenly. Sam sometimes forgets that this is the person he spent his entire life beside and that she knows him better than anyone else; he doesn't even have to say anything at all. 

"Shut up."

"Oh!" she says again, surer than before about what she's seen, then starts ugly laughing at him.

"Oh, god. Shh. Are you—shhh, Sarah! Jesus! Are you spending the day here or what?" 

"God, no. Germ factory. Going to the mall. I'll see you at—who is that??"

Sam turns to whatever has Sarah captivated behind him and finds Okoye flipping through a chart. She's got her lab coat on and isn't wearing the scrub hat for a change; her lips painted red. 

"My boss. So knock it off with that look." Sam steps in front of her to block her view.

She pushes him away despite his resistance, "What? Like you didn't just look exactly like this?" 

To his horror, Okoye looks up and sees Sarah's drooling face. Sam sighs and resigns to the fact that he's lost this fight, especially when Okoye comes walking over to them. 

He doesn't see her smile often, but she's smiling now. 

"Wilson." she nods, only glancing at Sam briefly, "I see you brought a guest."

"Sarah Wilson," his sister says, putting on her best smile. Sam knows this smile. It's the same one she flashed at Jody Atkins back in 8th grade and landed the girl no one else could. 

Okoye's head tips sideways; her eyes fixed on Sarah. Sam wants to die as she introduces herself, and they make flirty chit chat as if he's not there. He only really zones back in when Okoye stuffs the patient chart into his hands. 

She says, "Good job on that rhinoplasty test run, Wilson." 

And then she's walking off with his sister, who is waving at him with wiggling little fingers over her shoulder. 

"What the fuck, man..." he mumbles to himself. 

The day goes by pretty fast. He works two cases with Barnes and finds that, weird-crush-thing aside they still work together like a machine. And if that doesn't drop him even deeper in… well… in love than he already is. 

Because that is obviously what all this is. He tried not to, but he fell for Barnes. Thinking about it now, he's not sure how he'd been planning not to fall in love when he'd been crushing on the dude since the moment he laid eyes on him, through all the shit, the darkest hours, and still now. 

And he's there. He's all in. He wants this. Barnes is on the way, might have taken a long way around, but he's getting there, Sam thinks anyway. And perhaps that's why it's hard to call this thing by name just yet- it's there, but it's not. 

But it's definitely a thing. It's in the way they look at each other, every last smile and glance and touch; it's in everything they don't say. It's like the sky above them has ignited with a plethora of fireworks, and the world is just waiting for them to look up and notice. 

Sam can wait. Some things are worth it. 

They meet each other at the front exit when the shift ends and wait for Sarah in the chilly night air. They stand impossibly close, close enough that Sam doesn't feel the cold. Sam hesitates for a second, but then, because Barnes' shoulder is right there, he leans his head against it. 

Barnes, without missing a beat, tilts his head down, his cheek pressed to the top of Sam's head. Sam feels him flinch minutely whenever a man walks by, specifically big ones with dark hair, but he stays put right next to Sam. 

About twenty minutes later, an Audi pulls up, and his sister slides out the passenger side like a lazy cat. 

Inside Okoye grins and salutes Sam and Barnes before driving off again. 

"Before you have a tantrum," she says, "We just had coffee."

Sam raises one eyebrow, "For four hours?"

She shrugs, smirking, "We had a few coffees, what can I say?"

By now, Sam and Barnes have parted. Sam immediately wants to go back to doing that, with all of the fibers in his body he wants to curl up with his back against Barnes' chest and fall asleep in his arms, but apparently, they're entertaining tonight. 

_____

Bucky is delightfully charmed by Sarah. She's really funny, just like her brother, and Bucky has to admit he enjoys seeing Sam all worked up over his sister ribbing the shit out him.

They're sitting around the kitchen island, Bucky next to Sarah and Sam opposite them. They did order the dumplings and spring rolls and beer, but it's obviously not as intimate as the two of them had initially planned. If it were, who knows what might have happened.

Still, it's intimate on quite a different level.

"Did he tell you about the time I convinced him to play I Wanna Sex You Up for his school recital?" Sarah snorts when Sam glares at her.

"Nope, please do, though," Bucky says.

"She gave me the sheet with no lyrics and told me it's the national anthem of Iceland."

Sarah and Bucky just about cracks with laughter. She says, "My mom was horrified; you can't even imagine."

Sam pretends to be begrudged, but there's a small little smile tugging at his lip corner. It makes a dimple on his right cheek, and all Bucky can think of is pressing a kiss to it.

He finds Sam looking at him when he lifts his head, quickly and then blinking away.

Bucky says to Sarah, "Do you play?"

"Me," Sarah says, "I taught him what he knows."

Sam pulls a face, "Uh, no."

"Course I did!" She starts wiping her hands, and with a cheek full of dumpling, she says, "Come on, I'll show you."

Sam groans like the ever-suffering sibling he is. Bucky is familiar with that, it's been a while since he last experienced Becca's snark and wit and unflinching ability to talk shit, but he remembers the warm feeling of home and belonging that comes with it. Even in the current cheery atmosphere, he misses it like a heartbeat.

Sarah, of course, is very dramatic. She sits down at the piano bench and stretches her arms above her head until something pops, then rolls her neck and clears her throat.

Bucky looks at Sam, amused, and grins. Sam, despite rolling his eyes at his sister, smiles at him like sunshine.

The song starts out pretty slow, smooth and languid notes, and it's clear Sarah has as many years' experience playing as Sam does. She's incredibly graceful and self-assured.

Sam joins her on the bench a couple of minutes in. Another self-evident thing is that they've done this a whole lot of times before. He falls into tune with her easily, but he plays faster, forcing her to speed up as well.

"You're ruining my song!" she calls out, but she's laughing.

"Come on, keep up," Sam says, unaffected, fingers moving lightning fast over the keys.

Eventually, they're both cracking up and trying to outdo one another; the song is long forgotten. Sarah starts tickling Sam, Sam tries to grab her hands, and they end up chasing each other up the stairs and back down before tumbling to the floor. They just kind of stay there snickering and cursing at each other.

Bucky starts cleaning up the counter, and after some time, Sam and Sarah get up.

"Hey, gonna help her settle upstairs," he tells Bucky.

"Uh, yeah, I gotta make a call anyway."

There's a brief flash of questioning in Sam's eyes, but he doesn't prod. Instead, he carries Sarah's luggage up to the loft.

Bucky throws their take-out containers away, grabs his phone from the counter and heads out to the hallway. The door shuts with a gentle click behind him.

His fingers tremble mercilessly when he unlocks and opens his contact list, scrolling down to 'B.' There's no way of telling if the number still works, he'll only know if he dials it.

Bucky can barely swallow when he hits call, and he almost quits it right then. But it's inevitable; it's an emptiness he can't ignore any longer no matter how hard he tried to convince himself—especially in the last few weeks—that he could live without it.

At first, he thinks it's gone to voicemail, but the line redirects to another number and then rings a few times.

"Hello?"

"Uhm hi, it's, uhm… It's—"

"Bucky?!"

Becca, on the other end, starts crying.

"Hey, Becs…"


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this ;)

Bucky wakes up in another realm of elevation the following morning, not that he slept soundly at all. His conversation with Becs ran through his mind all night, and the comfort of her voice lingered long after they hung up. 

He didn't get into too much detail over the phone about what happened and why he finally called, and she didn't seem very fazed about it either. He thinks she knows anyway; she warned him about Brock after all. But she said they miss him and they want to see him, and they can't wait.

And so he woke up for the first time in a very long while without the weight of guilt and regret hanging around his neck. Everything, somehow, seems a shade brighter. He meant to tell Sam the moment he opened his eyes, but he'd already left to drop Sarah at the train station. 

Then his mind kind of screeches to a halt again, and he sighs long and loudly, flopping back on the bed. _Sam._

They've been pretty close to something happening between them for a while, and it's fraying his nerves in the best way. There is still a little tug of uncertainty about everything inside him, especially about this. 

He doesn't know what the hell he's doing; hell, he's not even sure what he feels. It's good is all he knows, and it's not fear or worry or pain, and in a wonderful twist, Sam somehow feels the same. They've just been standing on this cliff edge waiting to fall, waiting for the waves below to swallow them up and carry them away. 

And he's ready. All he can think of is Sam Wilson. All he does, day in and day out, is wonder what Sam's doing. His favorite part of any day has become the part where Sam and his million-dollar grin walks up to him. Bucky seeks him out, he craves his company, and he's not sure he wants to put a name to this feeling just yet.

But it feels like flowers, a thousand different shades and shapes, and petals of all colors fluttering in the wind. Like a vast field of tulips, rows, and rows of pastel beauty and brilliance. 

So that's what he does. He orders flowers from the little shop a couple of streets away before he heads to work. 

He plays it pretty safe; they're pink tulips, not red roses, and as far as flora meanings go, he doesn't know what it says exactly, but he asks for the note to read "Dinner on Friday?" without his name. There's a chance Sam will be with Erik or Steve when he gets them, and Bucky doesn't need those kinds of questions right now. 

And he's right. 

By the time Bucky finishes a round in the kid's ward, Sam, Steve and Erik are huddled around a huge bunch of pink tulips on the front desk. 

Bucky stops a little way off to watch, his heart suddenly stuck in his throat, dry as cotton. And, briefly, as Sam inspects the bouquet with a frown, Bucky can not for the life of him breathe anymore.

What the fuck was he thinking?? Doing something so elaborate and stupid?? Jesus, this could have waited, he could have done this at home, spare them both the embarrassment, god Sam's going to hate him forever. He can't. He can't stand here. He hates himself for this. 

He's about to spin around and make a beeline for the exit. He's about to run home and pack up and get the fuck out of dodge. He's about to…

But then Sam smiles. A slow, knowing, bright smile. 

He bites his lip in an attempt to reign it in, bows his head, and the smile just grows wider and wider. The card clutched to his chest.

Bucky exhales long and hard and finally gets his feet to move. 

"Just say who it's from??" Erik drones, trying to pry the card out of Sam's hand. Sam shrugs him off, still grinning a little dopey. 

Steve's also trying to grab for the card over Sam's shoulder, "What's his name, Sam, come on… what his name?? Sam…" 

"Ya'll have no sense of privacy. Whatsoever." he slaps Erik's hand away, "Quit it!"

"Tell us what this is then, bro!" 

"Obviously, they're flowers," Bucky says, sliding up to rest against the counter. 

Erik and Steve's heads snap to Bucky, their mouths open in silent realization. Or what they think is realization. 

From the glint in Sam's eyes, Bucky knows they're not revealing much at this very moment. Sam's enjoying the one-up on these two far too much. So he plays along.

"Yeah, man." Sam pokes Steve in his right pec, makes his squirm, "Flowers. Clearly." 

Erik waves him off, "That's not… you know what? I've got ambulance things to do okay. You just… have fun with your _flowers,_ Wilson."

Sam cackles out loud at his dramatic departure. "Anyway. Let me text him back about dinner," he says with a cheeky lilt while Bucky is standing right there. 

"He's a lucky guy," Bucky says very sincerely, and Sam's cheeks turn red. "Tell him I said hi."

Steve scratches his temple, looking horrifically confused at them, "Wait. What?" 

"See you later!" Sam calls over his shoulder, walking away with his delivery cradled in his arm. 

Steve throws his hands up, "What is wrong with you two, I swear!!" and then he's off in the opposite direction. 

"Bye, Rogers." Bucky giggles and gets on his way too. "See you for the game tonight!"

His phone vibrates three times in his pocket, and he, too, smiles ridiculously wide.

* * *

When Barnes gets home early evening, Sam's busy aiming his phone at the bunch of tulips—now placed in a vase of water standing on the countertop.

Sam takes a picture and glances back to give him a grin, "Showing Sarah." He explains a little coy, looking down at his phone, but he can't quite stop himself smiling.

Bucky drops his sling-bag on the couch, shrugs off his jacket and shoes, and joins Sam in the kitchen. "That's gotta mean you like them, huh?"

He wants to tell Barnes that he's been feeling like a high schooler who got asked to prom by all the cutest kids, that his heart has been loosely dangling from his sleeve for the longest time, and he wishes Barnes would just take it already.

Instead, he says, "I love them." and watches Barnes' face light up, "Gotta wonder though,"—and perhaps he's goading a little right now— "what did a guy do to end up spoiled like this?"

Sam can think of a couple of obvious explanations here: thank you, well done, good luck, they were meant for Sarah. He cringes at that last one. Lord, please. 

But Barnes' smile is curved to the side, satisfied and knowing, and he says, "What? A guy can't send another guy flowers because he thinks that guy is pretty great?"

"Well," Sam says, passing by Barnes deliberately close and with a raised eyebrow, "the other guy is real flattered, okay?"

"Good," Barnes says, his voice coming out a little weird.

A quick silence passes, during which Sam swipes through the food app so they can order before Steve gets there for the game.

"Gonna help me choose, or stand there and look pretty?"

Barnes goes red and snorts, "Jesus. Okay." He washes up before joining.

Sam tries not to look at his wet forearms and hands slick with soap. He definitely doesn't look at the droplets that scatter on his t-shirt, and he for sure doesn't imagine that t-shirt completely soaked through. No sir.

"What?" Barnes says, looking down with a confused frown like Sam had been staring at some atrocity on his shirt.

Now, Sam's face runs hot with embarrassment. He plays it dumb, "Huh?"

"Oh, thought I had something on me."

_A whole lot of fine, yes._

They turn around to lean their elbows on the counter- Barnes' shoulder pressed to Sam's, the food app open, scrolling, all while Sam thinks he deserves some kind of medal for enduring the proximity like this. But he knows it's more than enduring, he's seeking it out at this point. He's living for the moments they get to be this close.

He finally clicks on a restaurant, but Barnes swipes back.

"No, Steve doesn't like peppers," Barnes says.

"That's onions."

"No, he likes onions; he always eats Sharon's."

"Well, someone fuckin' pays attention, huh." He gently shoves Barnes to the side; it makes him laugh.

"Yeah, in case I ever have to order my best friend some food, I know what to get. Not like _his_ BFF, who'd get him fucking _peppers_ for dinner."

"Oh!! _Your_ BFF? Is that what we're doing?" Sam puts the phone down, straightens out, and pokes Barnes pec.

Barnes licks his lips, grinning all dark and bratty, poking Sam back, "Yeah, what you gonna do about it?"

"Say Steve's _my_ best friend, and we won't have to find out."

"Never!"

Sam rolls his shoulders, smiles, "Alright. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Barnes already starts giggling before Sam even reaches for him. He's not sure what exactly he set out to do here, but it results in a tickling match, with Sam's fingers wiggling against Barnes' ribs and Barnes laughing hysterically in Sam's arms, trying weakly to bat him away.

"Oh, god! Okay, okay, okay!" he finally screams, and Sam stops right away, looking at him childishly giddy.

In the back of his mind, he realizes the playfulness could have gone badly awry, that Barnes could have reacted with fear not delight, but instead, he leaned into it; he let Sam touch him. Barnes trusts him.

Sam's heart is achingly full.

Breathless and grinning and still holding Barnes—one hand around his middle, another gripped around his upper arm—Sam whispers, "Say it." But he doesn't really care anymore; they're just standing too close for Sam to form any coherent kind of thoughts.

Barnes' breath catches; he's flushed, "Steve's _your_ best… he's your… he uhm…" Barnes' voice trails off, and his eyes drop to Sam's mouth and stay there.

"Yeah…" Sam breathes, nodding weakly. He wets his bottom lip and says, "And what am I?"

He can feel Barnes' fingers curl into his shoulder, unsure and wanting all at once. Sam's right there with him; he feels it hot and electrifying between them. It's so close, so completely overwhelming that he can't move.

"You…" Barnes whispers, tugging Sam a little closer by his shirt, eyes fixed unyielding on Sam's lips, "You're—"

Sam shivers, heart pounding like something wild. "Buck…"

And then Barnes kisses him.

For a first, spontaneous, nervous kiss, it's pretty fucking good. No fancy stuff, just soft lips pressing then parting a fraction, just to fit together, and Sam almost starts crying right there.

Barnes' hand comes up to Sam's cheek, and it's him who opens his mouth first. He kisses Sam again, longer this time, his eyes still closed, his tongue wet and warm. He crowds up against Sam, so they're chest to chest, bringing his other hand up, so he's holding Sam with both, and tilts his head to get the angle just right.

Sam entirely melts into all the tenderness and warmth of Barnes' hands on him, holding him so delicately as if he thinks Sam might break apart. He wouldn't be entirely wrong, either.

And for a few seconds, they're just kissing slow and exploringly in Sam's kitchen, giving their hearts time to recede and their hands time to stop trembling— because they both are absolutely quivering, tethered to sanity by only a bare nerve.

Once they pull away, it's with a soft smack of lips and quiet unwillingness to move at all. Barnes' hands slide down to Sam's neck.

He finishes his earlier sentence.

"You." He says, eyes closed, "You're everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy these two finally got together! And judging by all of your enthusiastic comments, so are you guys :) Thank you all very much! Hope you guys enjoy this mostly fluffy chapter too! We kick off right after the kiss.

Spending the entire night glued to Sam, kissing him, running his hands up and down his arms seemed like such a great way to pass the evening, and Bucky had gotten so enamored he’d forgotten Steve was on his way over. 

He’s about to pull Sam in for another kiss when there’s a loud bang on the loft’s big wooden door. 

“Fuck,” Sam mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t move away, “We’re not done,” he says, nudging Bucky’s nose with his own. 

Bucky winks at him, “Not by a long shot.” and finally releases Sam to get the door. Sam’s grin as he walks away backward is something else; he’s inexplicably gorgeous. 

Another bang follows, “Shit’s heavy, hurry up!!” Steve shouts from the hallway while Bucky makes his way upstairs. 

He makes it to the bathroom before Steve sees him, and that’s really good since he thinks his flushed cheeks and loose state of disarray would give him away immediately. He gets the shower water running and braces himself on the basin. 

He just kissed Sam. He actually did that, and he wants to do it again and again. Despite this, he’s still trembling, unsure if it’s because of adrenaline and excitement or absolute terror. Probably it's everything all at once, but it feels _good,_ and that’s all that matters. 

There’s a funny feeling in his gut, though, something hollow and nervous and annoying. He remembers it in significantly bigger doses, something far more terrifying than this, but it’s still the same thing. It’s what consumed him each time someone talked to him, or any time another guy even looked his way, and Brock saw it. Dreadful guilt for having the nerve to look, for having the audacity to take his eyes off Brock. 

And before he can help it, he’s scrubbing and scrubbing at his skin as if the guilt is a permanent stain that’ll never come off, that’ll follow him all his life.

But then he remembers Mrs. Potts' words, “It’s okay to let yourself feel good.” “It’s okay to want things.” “You have nothing to feel guilty about.” and he drops the scrubby, inhaling the warm steam, counting to ten, letting the water scald his red-raw skin.

He thinks of Sam instead—his hands, his eyes like cattails in the golden light of dusk, his bowed lips, his perfectly curved mouth that tips so easily into a smile, kissing that mouth, feeling that body close to his—and he exhales into the stream of water. It’s alright. He’s alright. He's got nothing to feel guilty for.

But now he’s got a whole other problem. 

Bucky looks down at his half chubbed up dick and sighs. There's no way of him rubbing one out and not being completely obvious right now.

And then Steve ruins it for him anyway.

“Buck-o!! Stop jerking it and get down here. Game’s about to start!” 

Well then. 

He gets dressed in sweats and a grey crew neck he finds folded on Sam’s bed because all his shirts are still in the wash.

Downstairs, the food has arrived, and Steve and Sam are already cussing out the ref then promptly arguing about the lineup when he joins them.  Sam’s in the kitchen cracking beers open with his back turned, and Steve’s balanced on the edge of his seat staring at the screen. 

“Finally!” Steve grins when he sees Bucky, making Sam turn. 

The growing smile on Sam’s face falters when he lays eyes on Bucky, it takes him a second to realize Sam’s looking at his sweatshirt. There’s a far-off look in his eyes now as he blinks, forcing his gaze back up to Bucky’s face, only then does a small, surprised smile appear.

“Sorry, mine’s all dirty,” Bucky shrugs, fiddling with the cuffs, “If you mind I can—” 

Sam shakes his head and swallows, pointing at the emblem on Bucky’s left pec. It reads “U.S Pilots' Association” and “R.D Underdahl” underneath a pair of spread wings. 

And now that Bucky looks at the sweater, it’s kind of worn and frayed around the sleeves and hem.

“Oh—” he starts, beginning to peel it off, “Oh god, Sam, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—” but Sam stops him with a hand gently on Bucky’s wrist. 

“Don’t. I was surprised, that’s all,” he says quietly, eyes flicking to Steve in the lounge, “It’s perfect. Suits you.” and then his smile slides out of shock back into the delight that Bucky is so used to seeing on his face. 

“What?” Steve calls, eyes still glued to the game, but his ear canted to them, shoveling noodles into his mouth. 

“Nothing!” Sam calls back, his fingers still circled around Bucky’s wrist, now brushing a line along the inside. Then he whispers, “Wanna kiss you.” and he’s looking at Bucky’s lips again just like he had before, and everything inside Bucky turns to a goopy, warm mush. 

“Throw him out,” Bucky jokingly whispers back, nodding to Steve. 

Sam snorts, his eyes narrow with a smile, “Sit next to me, yeah?” 

Bucky nods, and he’s grinning dumbly, and he’s watching Sam leave with two beers, and he’s so goddamn happy that his eyes start clouding up. He’s forgotten what it’s like, he’s completely forgotten what it feels like when you’re safe and so happy that your heart clenches whenever you think about it… about him. But he remembers now; he remembers that his chest is not only made to carry heaviness and burdens; that light can exist within him, too. 

So he gathers himself and does, in fact, sit next to Sam, close, and lets himself enjoy the plethora of facial expressions and obscenities falling from Sam’s mouth about whatever’s happening on the screen, as well as some veg spring rolls and dumplings. 

Steve’s angled away from them, so Bucky runs a finger down Sam’s arm and neck and watches him stiffen and shiver before reaching over to squeeze Bucky’s knee. 

“So,” Steve says as half time breaks, falling back on the couch and looking at them, “Where’s Flower Boy?” He’s got a horrible look on his face because Bucky’s sure he knows who sent the goddamn flowers, and he’s just determined to wrangle it out of them.

“At home,” Sam says, entirely honestly. 

Steve’s eyebrow goes up, “Uh, huh.” then he looks at Bucky, “Do you like him? Flower Boy?” he takes another sip of beer, “Is he worthy of our best guy over here?” with that, he squeezes Sam’s neck like an annoying big brother.

Bucky suppresses a smile, “Well. I don’t know, man; he’s a little weird.” 

“So, you’re jealous then?” Steve says without a beat between his mouth and brain, and Bucky laughs. 

“Listen, he’s not weird, and  _ he’s _ not jealous. Buck introduced us.” Sam tips the bottle back to suppress a smirk, “Now, mouths off my Flower Boy, both of you.” and that makes Bucky’s cheeks go hot. 

Steve looking ready to lug them both, rolls his eyes, and ups the t.v volume again for the second half.

Bucky spends most of it gazing happily at the side of Sam’s face, letting himself dream about what’s next for them and of all the things they’d get to do when they’re alone, fantasizing about lazing together in bed and the uh... stuff that could happen there. He’s on his way to another semi when his phone vibrates on the coffee table. 

**Becca: “This is Daniel,”** the notification reads.

When he opens it, it’s a photo of a tall blonde man and his sister- beautiful as ever, squinting into sunlight on a Greek terrace. She’s wearing a flowing blue sundress, and her hair spirals down her shoulders in thick dark curls. When he last saw her, she’d just cut a bob. 

Becca: We’ve been dating for two years now, he’s a teacher :) 

Bucky stares at his phone for a moment, absorbing the fact that he’s talking to his _sister,_ and she’s divulging her life after so long, and he thought he couldn’t get any more emotional, but he’d been mistaken. 

Sam chooses this moment to sneak a look at him.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he says. Steve turns to look too. 

Bucky turns the phone to them, shaking his head, “This is my sister.” 

Their faces beam at that because they both understand the value of it. Bucky never told them what happened; he never said, ‘she warned me, and I told her to mind her own business’ he never told them how he picked an abusive maniac over his family, but they understand anyway. 

And they reach over to high five him and pretend they don’t see the tears bubbling in the corners of his eyes, but Sam squeezes his knee again, with a different meaning this time.

“Hey, smile,” Bucky says, fixing the camera on them, and they grab hold of each other, both giving a huge cheesy grin for the picture. 

_Me: 6597_1986.jpg_

_Me: this is Sam and Steve. They work at the hospital with me._

She sends back an emoji holding its face and screaming. Bucky laughs, looks up, and finds Sam smiling at him now- which he has to admit is slowly becoming the best thing in the world. 

Steve and Sam are halfway through a serving of hot wings when their pagers go off in unison. One frantic buzz after the other. They all share a quick, nervous look before answering. 

Bucky frowns at his own that stays dead silent.

“Oh damn,” Sam mumbles through a cheek full of chicken and starts wiping his fingers down. 

Steve hands the remote over to Bucky and gives his game a longing gaze. “Duty calls.” he licks his fingers clean, slips on his jacket, and stuff his belongings in the pockets, then he’s out the door. 

“See you in a few,” Bucky says; his next shift’s due in only a few hours anyway.

Sam’s on his way to the door, too, grabbing his coat when he stops and looks back at Bucky. He licks his lips, tells Steve, “Forgot my hat!” and stalks over to the couch where Bucky’s still sitting.

“Your  _ hat??”  _ Steve laughs.

Sam leans down, takes Bucky’s face in his hands, and gives him a kiss that is both hard in intensity and tender with promise. Then he pulls back, looking dazed, and smirks. “See you later.” He seems so wholly, deliriously ecstatic that he can do that now.

And Bucky’s so taken by it that he’s still staring at the closed door minutes after Sam has gone. He finally remembers his conversation with Becca and unlocks his phone again. 

_ Becca: they’re gorgeous!  _

Bucky crops the photo he took of the other two earlier so that only Sam is in the frame. He sends it to her. 

_ Me: 1738_u3e.jpeg  _

_ Me: especially this one.  _

He adds a heart emoji and the pride flag. 

_ Becca: does that mean…… _

_ Me: yeah Becs _

This time she sends a sobbing emoji, a smiling emoji, a heart emoji, four exclamation marks, another sobbing emoji, and two hands clapping. 

_ Becca: oh, Buck!! I’m so happy for you!!!  _

_ Me: yeah, me too _

_ Becca: he’s kind, you can see it. is he good to you Buck?  _

He knows what she’s asking without actually saying it. 

_ Me: he’s an angel. _

* * *

The E.R is a milling shitshow. 

Someone shoves a chart into Sam’s hands when he gets there, Steve gets pulled in another direction, someone else is mopping up splatters of blood from the tile, and everyone’s speaking all at once. 

He hears the incessant rattle of chains, a man’s gruff voice screaming, cursing. Chains? Why chains? What—

He looks back out the door at the van parked in the lot: Metropolitan Detention Center.

And then, in one of the bays, he sees the regrettably familiar face in an orange jumpsuit, six-foot-something, shackled to the bed and thrashing violently, bleeding from his gut.

“Let me see him!!!” Brock screams, and Sam feels like he’s about to puke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here too: [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your gasps of terror in the previous chapter :D That was fun! This follows on from chapter 19.
> 
> Oh! Warnings for mentions of blood, injury, intestines and just gross surgery stuff.

Sam freezes for a few moments and just stares at the nurses struggling to keep pressure on Brock's wound. 

There's a nurse beside him too, he realizes. She says, "Shank to the gut, about 1.9 inches deep, vital organ or organs damaged, Fast Scan shows internal hemorrhage. Possible risk of rupture and bleeding out if extracted—"

There's blood on the chart she hands him.

"Where is Okoye?" Sam asks, still staring at Brock.

She blinks up at him, "Doctor Wilson?" 

"Where is Doctor J'Kuwali?" he repeats, "Or Banner?" There is no way he should be handling Brock's surgery… he can't… it's just not… because he  _ will _ need surgery and Sam can't…

"They're—there are four inmates, Doctor Wilson, two in surgery, one in ICU and—" she motions to Brock, "They're in the—" 

"The O.R. Got it. Yeah. Uhm." As a last resort, he looks for Sharon, but she's nowhere to be found, neither is Steve and so Sam's going to have to do this. "Alright." he clutches the chart under his arm and slips on a pair of gloves.

Doctor Wilson…" the nurse says again, now with a careful lilt to her voice. Then, "He keeps asking for Doctor Barnes, I… sir I don't know—" 

"Listen to me," he says, turning to her, "Doctor Barnes is not to come anywhere near this patient. I need you to tell Scheduling to send him to Pediatrics the moment he arrives for his shift. Do you understand? I need you to understand this." 

"Yes, Doctor, someone told them not to page him," she shivers out all big eyes and pale and then gets on her way, "I'll double-check."

Sam inhales and gets moving too. 

The guy's chained to the bed, shackles around his ankles and wrists, dressed in a shocking orange jumpsuit seeped with a deep red stain, crimson splatters all down his legs, a trickle even running down his chin.

Sam swallows. Brock hasn't recognized him yet; he's yanking at his restraints, crying out in pain, and cursing at the nurses trying to hold him still. 

"Get an I.V started. We're going straight to O.R. This thing's too deep." Sam says to his support staff, not looking at the patient. 

Sam clears his throat; he's starting to sweat with the effort of keeping his composure. He wants to slam his hand down and bury that shank to the hilt, make it disappear. He wants to wheel this gurney straight to the morgue because all he sees when he looks at Brock is the sheer size of him, his raw and bruised fists, his cold hard eyes… Bucky's limp body in a bloody heap on the floor. 

"Mr. Rumlow, I'm Doctor Wilson, I—"

Rumlow turns to him, and then silent, surprised recognition falls over his face. He stops struggling and rests back against the bed.

"Well. Hi doc," he says with a breathless sneer. He looks wild and feral and murderous all at once. 

And fuck him. He doesn't get the upper hand here. Sam steels himself, "You're going to the O.R now, Mr. Rumlow, your wound requires immediate surgery. Do you have—"

"Where is he?" Brock says like honey on hot steel, "Bring him to me. Let  _ him _ cut me open." a pause follows, so brutal it's nearly palpable, "He cut me open before when he fucked you. So let  _ him  _ do it!" __

The nurses stiffen and share quick, apprehensive glances around the room. 

Sam lifts his chin, ignoring the questioning looks despite their professionalism. 

"I," Sam says, " will be performing your surgery today." his mouth in a flat smirk, blinking slowly away from Brock. He nods at the nurse, and she places a mask over Brock's nose and mouth.

A gleeful satisfaction spreads warmly in Sam's chest at Brock's expression: shocked, terrified, starting to protest, but sleep drags his struggling body under. 

Autopilot takes over then. Sam follows the stretcher to the next available O.R, they wheel him in for prep, cutting open his jumpsuit and sticking him full of lines while Sam watches through the gallery window, scrubbing his hands. 

He supposes it all comes down to this. He's been studying textbooks for years; he's been doing this job with a smile on his face and reveling in how easily it all came to him. Like his dad used to say, he is a natural healer, a true talent. Even the hardest of times had been a slight storm at worst. But this? He's never had to fight himself like this. 

In no version of this does Brock deserve his help. He deserves jack shit. He deserves suffering. Yet, here he is: big, strong man now injured and helpless and at Sam's mercy. 

The textbooks don't tell you how to do this. They don't tell you that one day you will have to save a monster, and you will do it to the best of your abilities so that he may live despite the horrors he has committed. The textbooks never told him how much he would want to throw the scalpel down and march right out the hospital doors when that day came. 

He has passed and aced every test he's ever been given, but he knows now that the test was never whether he was good enough to do the job. The test is this. This right here. Saving someone who admittedly and undeniably does not deserve to be saved. 

That is what makes him a good doctor. 

Because he is going to save the life of a man who violated and dehumanized and abused the person he loves. 

He's going to save Brock Rumlow's life. 

A nurse comes to strap him up, sliding the gloves on, tying his mask, and then the operating table awaits him, glowing in a beam of sterile light. 

Brock is deathly still, his jaw slackened by pipes, his wrists leather-strapped to the table and the wound in his gut, just below his belly, gurgling blood. 

"Right," Sam says, "I need suction," 

And then he lengthens the incision, pulls the shank out of Brock's gut, extends the wound with a scalpel, clamps it, and starts working his way through multiple ruptured tissues to find the source of the internal leak. 

As if he hadn't been on edge enough, Okoye makes her way into the theater. She waits by the door to get suited up with fresh protective gear. Her eyes are fixed on Sam, and he can't quite make out the look she gives him. Still, he takes a deep breath and continues. 

Sam fingers around in the wound to locate the leak and more blood bubbles out, "Vitals?—Suction please." 

"Heart rate is spiking." the nurse says, "Organs going into distress." 

Okoye comes to stand beside Sam with her hands behind her back, "What have we got, Doctor Wilson?" 

"Male, mid-forties, stab wound, bleeding internally, source not yet confirmed." he tells her, "Starting ex-lap now." he holds his hand out, "10-blade please." the tech hands it over. 

"Very good." Sam makes a larger, deeper incision, "Beautiful. Smooth." she murmurs.

But even with the larger incision, Brock is still bleeding profusely, so much so that everything is red and wet, and Sam can't see a goddamn thing anymore. He lifts the intestine, they spray it down, no leak. He checks the abdominal walls, the stomach lining, and still doesn't find a damn thing. 

In the midst of this, Okoye very nonchalantly asks, "Do you know who this man is?" with knowingness thick in her voice, like she knows too. 

"I do. I know," he says, gritting teeth. She only gives one quick nod. 

Brock's vitals become erratic, and Sam's pulse picks up; he's struggling to breathe as the inevitable panic of losing a patient starts setting in. 

"Fuck! I can't—" 

"Yes, you can," Okoye says, "Look again." 

"I did—"

"Step back and  _ look _ , Wilson," she tells him firmly, calm as a trickling mountain stream. 

So he does, hands raised, blood dripping down the latex. And then, after helplessly staring at the gushing wound, he sees it- a thin spurt of blood from the left wall.

"Got it! Suction left iliac region, now!" 

Finally, once the excess blood is gone, he clearly sees the little rupture in the colon lining just above the hip bone. 

Okoye makes a satisfied noise beside him. "Well done. Let's get him stabilized." 

Sam grins behind his mask, "Yes, ma'am." 

The nurse confirms even vitals as he clamps the leak, and they drain Brock's abdominal cavity. 

And then the easy slope to the finish line is in sight. He knows this feeling, though. He knows the elation of success, of getting it right, of knowing he's good enough. 

So he starts humming.

The nurses and support staff giggle but join in, and soon the O.R is resounding with Sam Cooke. Even Okoye is humming happily, nodding her head along for the very first time. Sam's face hurts from grinning.

He recognizes the look on her face now. It's pride; she's proud of him. 

Sam sniffs back prickling tears—now is not the time—and swallows hard, getting to work.

Once he's done the intricate work of sealing and tying up the leak, he starts suturing the rest of tissue too, and that's when he looks up to the gallery. 

Bucky's standing there with his hands against the glass.

His face is stricken and panicked until he meets Sam's eyes, then his shoulders sag, and he exhales so hard the glass steams up in front of him. But the best part is that beautiful smile forming on his lips despite who's on this table in front of Sam.

Bucky can't see his face, so Sam throws an enthusiastic thumbs up at him. Bucky returns the gesture, grinning wide, and suddenly Sam can't wait to get done with this and go home.  
  


Sam finds Bucky straight after the surgery. He has to see him, has to know that he's okay after seeing Brock. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen at all. 

He finds Bucky coming from the Pediatric ward with his lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck. His hair's in a weird place now, getting longer up top but still short at the back and sides, but it's terribly distracting. 

He takes a deep breath when he sees Sam. 

Sam pulls them aside, into a quiet corner, "Why did you come? Who told you?" he whispers, drawing Bucky into a hug, resting their temples together. He's warm and smells like spicy aftershave, and the closeness makes Sam shudder desperately. "Why'd you do that, huh?" 

Bucky gasps softly at the proximity but pulls Sam even closer a moment later. He breathes in deep, closing his eyes, bites his lip then says, "Because—" 

A pause follows, and they're just standing there impossibly close.

"I didn't want you to be alone," Bucky says, "Not with him." 

Sam huffs out an incredulous laugh, "God, I…" 

And instead of saying what he really wants to say, he kisses Bucky. 

He kisses him hard and long, with tongue, with his body, his hands cupped around Bucky's face, feeling himself react to the intensity and friction, to the heat and promise of what lies beyond it. 

"Uhm," he mumbles when he drags himself away from Bucky's mouth. He angles his treacherous hips away, grinning up at Bucky a little sheepishly, a little flushed now. 

"Hmm." Bucky licks his lips, slightly breathless too, eyes blown black. 

Their pagers buzz then, bringing them back to a seemingly less vivid reality than what they just experienced. 

"Fuck. Gotta run," Sam tells him but pulls him in for another kiss. He might have a real goddamn problem because he can't imagine ever getting enough of it. Which is pretty great considering there was a time he didn't think he'd ever feel this way again. 

He ruffles Bucky's hair into a mess before he backs away, and Bucky just stands there propped against the wall, with this lazy dopey smile on his face, watching him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting another chapter tomorrow upon request by a lovely Anon and because I'm nice like that. So keep an eye out for it!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as promised! 
> 
> no warnings here just soft boys and closure ^_^ another emotional rollercoaster but ultimately a happy chapter :)

Bucky is about half an hour early for his therapy the next morning, so he takes two cappuccinos down to the lab where Sam's ordering tests for a new patient. The guy slept in the on-call room after Brock's surgery while Bucky ran his shift, and those beds aren't the greatest. 

And, once Sam's done and since they're early, they take a leisurely walk to Dr. Potts' office. Not hand in hand, the way Bucky would like, but Sam's in a pretty chipper mood considering the day before, so Bucky's not complaining. 

"So I said, bitch,  _ I'll _ be cutting you open today."

Bucky almost sputters out the sip of coffee he just took and looks at Sam, who seems happily satisfied with making him laugh so undignified. 

"Really, Wilson? That's what you said?" He bumps his shoulder into Sam's as they make their way down the quiet hallway.

Sam's eyes glint, his mouth curves invitingly into a grin, "Word for word." He makes a scout's honor sign, "And then I told him to sleep tight, motherfucker." 

Bucky squawks out loud, and a weird sound comes out his nose, "Shut up."

They snicker at each other for a moment, Bucky looking fondly at how Sam's nose scrunches up when he laughs, his toothy smile so catching even in unflattering fluorescents.

"Hey," Sam says then, looking away, "Does it, uh, I mean, me talking about him… that's okay with you?"

Bucky wants to tell Sam there's nothing he could do that'll ever be wrong. That Sam could tear him apart piece by piece, and Bucky wouldn't say a goddamn thing about it. 

Instead, he nods, bumping into Sam again, "Yeah. It's okay." 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam smile before he knocks back into Bucky. "Okay."

"Okay." Bucky mimics, and before they reach the end of the hallway for Bucky to head up to Potts' office and Sam to start his rounds, he says, "Hey, so dinner on Friday, right? Like going-out-dinner, not dinner at the loft. Wanna talk to you about something." 

"Talk to me now, don't be a tease," Sam says, leaning against the wall, smiling. God, he's cute. 

Bucky glances over Sam's shoulder, "Well, I would, but your biggest fan is approaching in three, two—Ma'am." 

Bucky gives Director Carter a quick nod; Sam's still frowning, not quite caught on until the woman slides up beside them. He then jumps to attention and straightens up, glaring cute little daggers at Bucky. 

"Director," Sam says.

Carter's in a navy suit and her lab coat, with a pen clipped to the breast pocket. Her grey-streaked hair is in a bun today, and she's carrying a stack of papers in the crook of her arm. 

"Gentlemen," she greets, her eyes soften a fraction when she looks at Bucky, "You look well, Doctor Barnes." 

"Well, I was treated by the best doctors you got, ma'am." His eyes flick briefly to Sam.

"Yes, speaking of the best doctors," she says, flipping through the papers in her arm and pulling out a form with the hospital's logo in the corner. There's a list of names: K. Khan, A. Chavez, K. Bishop, M. Rambeau, R. Williams, M. Fury, C. Lang, and a green stamp that says approved. 

She hands it to Sam. "These are the approved interns that will shadow you next year. You will teach them everything you know, Doctor Wilson, you will guide them, you will mentor them- not only in practice but in manner too.  _ Your _ manner."

Bucky can't stop grinning, but Sam just blinks at her, "This is Fury's… uh, Director Fury's daughter."

"Yes, exactly. Congratulations, Doctor, and good luck." She smirks, her brown eyes teasing, "Although luck seems to have very little to do with it, isn't that right?" And then she's off. 

Sam stares after her, gaping. 

"Nah, he's just that good," Bucky hums.

Then Sam's eyes fall on him, he looks dazed, but determined somehow, licking his lips as if he'd been parched all day. He grabs Bucky's hand and pulls him down the left corridor and into an empty on-call room.

And inside Sam, puts their coffee down, shuts the door and kisses him. He presses all of his warmth against Bucky and it feels like he melts into bliss right there. 

He hooks his arms around Sam's neck and pulls him closer, deeper into the kiss. Sam responds with a pleased and surprised hum and picks Bucky up by his thighs. At that, Bucky gasps in surprise when Sam props him up against the wall. 

It feels so good, the soft, warm lips in his neck, the way his skin feels prickly and alert to every move- Sam's hands squeezing his hips, kneading into his flesh, his eager participation, the way he wants Bucky. 

Bucky hasn't known true want for a very long time, hasn't known desire by mutual want or lust that is fair to both parties. He hasn't had anyone this close and liked it in what feels like ages. The mouth on his skin isn't biting; the hands touching him aren't choking his air away; the body is soft and attentive. Sam is not selfish. 

Sam kisses up Bucky's jaw, reaches his mouth again and kisses him tenderly once, twice, and then smiles at him. He looks a little disheveled with his lips flushed and wet like this. Bucky can't help but lean in for more. 

Finally, Sam lowers him to the floor again and leans his forehead against Bucky's, swaying slightly from side to side. 

"You got no idea how long I've wanted to do that for," he whispers.

Bucky's eyes are closed; he feels Sam's breath cool his lips. "Tell me then," he whispers back.

"What? Steal you away into one of these rooms? Kiss you up against a wall like this?" Sam kisses him slow, lips parted a little, then pulls back, "Feel you like this?" his hands drag languidly up Bucky's sides, "Since I first saw you with that long hair, the way you ran your hands through it, how you sometimes smiled when you didn't think anyone saw. Forever, baby." he says. "Since always."

Bucky never wants to leave here, he wants to stay and drown in Sam Wilson, he wants to be consumed whole and selfishly by this man. "And after you realized what a mess I am?" 

"Especially then," Sam says. 

Bucky leans in and kisses Sam again, harder this time, gasping in between. And through the sweetness of the kiss, he tastes the salt of his tears. 

If Sam does too, he doesn't say anything. 

He only pulls Bucky closer and holds him. 

"I'm so proud of you," Bucky whispers, "Of everything you do."

Sam hums barely audible, brushing his thumb over Bucky's bottom lip, "Ditto. Ditto, you're amazing." Sam whispers too.

And then just because he's a little shit, and because he's overwhelmed by all the feels, Bucky says, "Okay, but I gotta go to therapy now." 

Sam snorts as he pulls away, subtly adjusting the front of his pants. He's beautifully flushed like this; his scrubs are all twisted from where Bucky held on to him. "Yeah, okay." He says, grinning, "I'll see you later, Flower Boy." 

Bucky pulls a face at him, "Or maybe you won't if you keep calling me that."

Sam mocks him in a voice that reminds Bucky of that one Spongebob meme with the stupid face and the hands on his hips and then books it for his rounds. 

Bucky straightens himself out too and then makes his way to Potts' office. He's busy texting Becca about his plans to invite Sam along to his mom's place the following weekend when he looks up at the whiteboard. 

**B.R. Male. 45. Ward 3/Room 9.**

Bucky looks at the closed door of room nine, the two armed guards stationed outside, and goes toward it without a second thought. 

As he flashes the guards his access card and they let him in, he becomes less and less sure of what he's doing. 

The last time he saw Brock, his face was twisted in a fit of rage, Bucky's blood spattered on the shirt he wore, a dark shadow looming over him.

But now, he's pale and slack faced against the white sheets, the cuffs around his wrists bruise as he lay helpless and vulnerable. Bucky remembers his own wrists bruised from Brock's grip; he remembers the taste of dishwater and his own blood, the feeling of drowning in helplessness. 

He knows very well Brock's hands are not his only weapon and realizes that coming here had been a terribly bad idea because there's no good reason for it and nothing to say anyway. So he turns to leave before Brock gets to use his words too.

But, "Princess?"

Bucky stops halfway to the door. He doesn't turn. 

"That you?" His voice cracks.

Bucky doesn't answer, but now he turns. Brock is groggy and sluggish, obviously heavily sedated, but he's awake enough to know that Bucky's there. 

"They fucked me up in the joint," he says, his head lols to the side, "I asked for you. He wouldn't let me see you. They wouldn't—"

Bucky imagines the shit Brock gets up to in prison. He wonders if he's locked up with others like himself, if he gets to manipulate his way through life in there too. He wonders how Brock spun the story of his little slut that just couldn't keep it in his pants, how he justified everything.

"I miss you, Buck." He lifts his hands, and the cuffs clang loudly against the bed rail. Bucky flinches. "Just let me… just come…" he twists his hands again, trying to get free, "Just come over here." 

Bucky stays right where he is. In the lab coat's pockets, his nails dig half-moons into his palm. All he does is look at the man who got so very close to killing him so many times. He remembers how often he wished for it, for death to release him. But, he thinks, if Brock had succeeded, Bucky wouldn't know the ecstatic happiness he does now. He would never know the way excitement curls up his spine when Sam looks at him.

And now, as he stares at Brock after everything that has happened, he feels absolutely nothing. Not pity, not fear, not shame anymore either. The brutality is still there behind Brock's eyes, he sees it now, they're still cold and hard as marble.

"Fuck! Will you say something?!?! Just fucking—please just—" Brock cuts himself off, relaxes, and exhales through his nose. 

So it's forgiveness he seeks.

Bucky snorts quietly, his movements still familiar with being meticulously controlled around Brock. But it _is_ rather amusing because unsurprisingly, those words still don't come. Not even now, when everything has splintered around them, and there's no more pretense or hair braiding or concealing bruises with dollar store make-up. Brock still can't say sorry. He still can't admit to it.

Bucky could easily tell him that no, he doesn't forgive, and he'll most likely never forget either, and he could tell him to rot in hell, and that when the day comes, he sure as fuck will testify against him. He could tell him that his sister was right all those years ago- Brock is a manipulative sociopath. Bucky could tell him that the only thing he forgives is himself for letting it go on that long. 

But then he thinks: Brock doesn't deserve a damn thing, not even Bucky's vengeful words. 

So he gives Brock one last, deliberately silent look, turns on his heel, and walks out.

Brock screams gutturally raw behind him as the guards shut the door again, the cuffs rattle violently. 

And as Bucky's luck would have it, Sam comes striding down the corridor at the same time. He throws an arm around Bucky in greeting and kisses his temple once they're close, and obviously, Bucky is smiling at him like a ray of sunshine. 

Because he knows Brock can see it all from the window in his room. 

* * *

There's not an ounce of energy between them when they finally get home that night. 

Sam hasn't asked why Bucky had gone to see Brock, and Bucky hasn't bothered trying to explain either. He thinks Sam knows the value of closure, what with the restless dreams he sometimes has of Riley, and spirals of fire from the sky. 

Bucky cooks them some Alfredo and chops up a salad while Sam mixes them each a smoothie to get some nutrients back in their exhausted bodies. The last 24 hours have been a wild goddamn ride. It's good just to be home, be quiet, in the presence of someone who cares for you, where nothing can hurt you. 

Not even bad memories stand a chance at ruining the perfect, happy harmony he finds himself in with Sam. 

They eat in silence, scrolling through their phones, and later yawn their way through washing up and finally taking turns in the shower.

The loft is quiet and dark, with only the small yellow lamps on the top floor glowing as Bucky gets dressed. 

The steam wafts out with Sam as he steps out of the bathroom. He smells like Jasmine and mint, and he pulls a loose, long-sleeved t-shirt over his head. He looks comfortable and soft and warm, and Bucky wants to snuggle up so close and never part again. 

Bucky doesn't miss the way Sam's eyes take a leisurely tour down his body. Bucky knows there are scars all over him that'll never heal—the cut below his eye, on his ribs and his left shoulder where Brock's teeth broke skin—and yet Sam looks at him as though he's a pastel-painted canvas.

He doesn't know why. He doesn't know why Sam's so good to him or why he looks at him the way he does or what he ever did to deserve it, but he knows he'd be a goddamn fool to let an opportunity slip to be close to him.

"Uhm." He clears his throat, "Why don't you—" nodding to his bed. He hopes Sam gets what he's trying to say. "If you want to." 

Sam looks at him then the bed, then back at Bucky, "Hell no." he says and starts walking away, but he pulls Bucky along by his wrist. 

"You know I got that good mattress shit going on right here. Why'd you wanna make me sleep in the spare bed, huh?" 

Bucky laughs. "You made  _ me _ sleep in the spare bed!!" he protests. 

They hit Sam's bed in a tumble, and Sam immediately wraps himself around Bucky— nose in Bucky's neck, chest warm and solid against his back, hands intertwined.

"Not anymore," he says. "Never again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here too: [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I'm busy writing the very last chapter! Can't believe we're almost done!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief dissociation/panic attack toward the end (yall thought we were done with this huh). but generally a pleasant chapter.

For a week, they manage to keep their relationship relatively secret; but Bucky thinks the other guys, especially Steve, have noticed something at least. There was that time in the hallway with Sam's arm around him and the swift removal of said arm when Steve appeared and well, now: 

They're sitting in the canteen for lunch, Erik, Steve, Sharon and the two of them. Sam purposely sat next to Steve- opposite Bucky and Bucky is trying his goddamn best not to stare or smile or look in any way too fond when Sam talks or laughs at his own jokes. 

But Sharon's no idiot. She sees when Bucky ducks his head, shaking off an affectionate grin, she sees him on his phone texting someone, even though he angles it away. It's Sam. He's texting Sam idiotic emojis under the table because he is like a besotted kid with his first crush. 

Sam doesn't seem to mind either; he's got that same smitten smile on his face when he looks at his phone while he texts back even dumber emojis. 

Erik makes a grab for his phone, but Sam's faster and yanks it out of reach. Erik rolls his eyes, "Who?? Who the fuck are you talking to, man??" 

"If it were your business, you'd know," Sam says. His eyes briefly flick to Bucky.

"No, okay," Sharon chips in, leaning forward on her elbows with a fry dangling between her fingers, "Remember that time, we were interns, and you took out that boy? You told us aaaall about that."

Sam grabs her fry and eats it, shrugging.

Erik's mouth is stuffed, but he points accusingly at Sam, "You did! In detail! Something something the back of a Wrangler something someth—" 

"Okay!" Sam cuts him off. Bucky snorts, busying himself with his wrap like maybe that'll hide the flush on his cheeks. Sam gives him an apologetic, guilty look when he lifts his head again.

"And!" Steve swallows a gulp of milkshake, "When you crushed on Hill!" He points to Bucky, "Just before he joined!"

"So, what's the deal this time, dude?" Erik leans back and wipes his mouth. 

Sam's head drops back from exasperation, "It's just different this time."

They all make a curious "oooh" sound and lean in as if he's about to divulge the rest too. In all honesty, Bucky has no idea why they're playing this game, or perhaps there's a valid reason why Sam doesn't want to say anything. Either way, Bucky plays along.

"Anyway," Sam says, getting that horrible, mischievous glint in his eyes, "Let's talk about y'alls love lives. Rogers, still banging Stark?" Steve goes beet red and sputters, "Stevens, still banging everyone and their mothers?" Erik just looks proud of himself.

And when Sam looks at Sharon to start shit with her too, she's holding up a white, plastic knife, "Go ahead." she arches up a brow.

"I saw you looking at that Martinelli nurse!!" Sam rambles off, laughingly dodging a crumpled napkin flying at his head from Sharon's direction. 

Sharon protests, but her cheeks are a little pink too, "I liked her shoes, Samuel."

Sam stands up and turns around to point at his ass, "Shoes? Here?? Did you go to med school?" 

And now everyone is laughing too much to even hear what Sharon has to say about that. Bucky reaches over and ruffles her hair as a consolation; she just looks at him and gives a defeated eye roll.

"God, you're awful. All of you," She moans and finishes off the last of her fries. 

Sam's eyes are narrowed and his face gleaming with joy, he sticks his tongue out, laughing and tosses Sharon's crumpled napkin back at her, then comes over to give her a rough bear hug. "I'm just playing with you," he murmurs, and she playfully pats his arm. Bucky wishes he was Sharon Carter right about now. 

He can't help now but stare at Sam so happy and bubbly because it's honestly the prettiest smile he's ever seen. Of course, Sam catches him and winks as he starts clearing up the table to get back to work. 

And, yeah, Bucky still has trouble believing that this is all real. That he gets to go home with this guy, and wake up next to him, and kiss him and just… feel as safe as he does. 

It's a far shot from where he'd been a couple of months ago. He started at this hospital scared and jumpy, not even allowing himself to imagine a life outside of the terror he'd known. 

Erik pokes his bicep then, at which point he realizes he hasn't listened to a word they were saying because he'd been ogling the hell out of Sam.

"Huh?" he says dumbly. Sam snorts, tossing takeout boxes in the bin. 

Erik's eyebrow goes up, amused, "I asked Sam what about his roommate?" he licks his thumb clean and hands Sam his empty box too, "Is he seeing anyone, Sammy Boy?" He grins knowingly at Bucky.

Bucky starts with "uhm" and "I…" but Sam, having tossed the last of the trash, comes toward him with a steely determined look on his face. 

He says, "I don't know. Why don't you ask him yourself?" 

And then he leans down and kisses Bucky right on the mouth. 

It's no quick peck either. He makes it linger, his mouth soft and a little wet, and he's holding Bucky's chin, and despite the audience, Bucky opens his mouth against Sam's to kiss him back.

The responses range from "You assholes." to "Fucking knew it." to "Where's that napkin now I can't believe you two." 

But all Bucky hears is Sam's warm whisper in his ear after he pulls away, "See you tonight." Because it's Friday and they're going on their first official date where he'll get to stare at Sam in uninterrupted peace.

Right now, though, as Sam saunters away, Bucky's left with a table full of his new friends who hurl questions and congratulations at him from all directions, and he finds he doesn't mind even in the slightest. 

He smiles, feeling Steve squeeze his shoulder, happily telling Erik that Bucky wore Sam's sweatshirt the other night, and Sharon, with her chin resting in her hand, says, "Awww Buck!" 

They're all genuinely happy for him, he thinks. And, for a moment, he feels like every emotion he's rummaged through over the last few days threatens to bubble to the surface in abundance. He's not just safe now; he's got Sam, he's got his family back; he's surrounded by people who care about him and who'll look out for him. 

In the back of his mind, there's a backyard a tree swing, but it's no longer the only place of solace; he no longer needs to go there to feel peace. 

It's all over now; it envelops him. 

And it is endless. 

* * *

They go to a quiet Italian place on the East River with warm yellow fairy lights and slow music, and when Bucky asks Sam to meet his family the following weekend, Sam just about chokes on a string of Linguine. 

But he grins beautifully wide and reaches over, lifting Bucky's hand to kiss it. 

"I'd do any goddamn thing you want me to do," Sam says.

And it might just be the closest thing to perfect Bucky's ever heard.

The night is long, in the nicest way, in a deeply intimate way. They share Italian Kisses, get a little tipsy on Dolcetto that stains Sam's lips red and glowy and makes his eyes all soft. It makes his smile look all the more inviting, lazy, absurdly attractive, his laugh like midnight, and his body like a magnet gravitating toward Bucky.

So naturally, they stumble into the loft past one a.m, their hands feeling and grabbing at each other, shrugging jackets and sweaters off and trying not to break their lips apart. The cool night air still clings to their skin, but the sudden burst of fiery desperation heats them right up. 

Despite this new thing they've got going, they've been taking it pretty slow. Bucky thinks Sam's unsure about where the boundaries are, Sam's scared of touching him like that, and honestly, Bucky has let it be because he's terrified of what lies beyond kissing. 

He _wants,_ though. He knows that much. He wants everything when he looks at Sam, especially when they kiss, and sometimes he can feel Sam hard against him, and there's no doubt that Sam wants him too. In many ways. 

But they've yet to go beyond a filthy make out session in the on-call rooms, on the couch, or in the kitchen before everything dwindles to a stop. Because Sam has been holding back and Bucky's been letting him. 

This time though, in the magic-riddled hours of twilight, with Sam's hands in his hair and their bodies impossibly close, he thinks this is when things will finally change for them. A step forward.

Bucky's head is rushing with the way Sam's kissing him. It's dizzying and too much but in such a deeply satisfying way. Where Sam's hand lands in his neck, it burns and aches and leaves Bucky curving his body into every available part of Sam that touches him.

"Buck…" Sam whispers, questioning, kissing him again, pulling him closer by the small of his back. 

"Yeah. Yes." Bucky swallows. He nods without a doubt. Whatever Sam wants right now, he'll give it to him; he'll give everything to him. 

The back of Bucky's legs hit the couch, and before he knows it, they're horizontal, his heart pounds, but still, he squeezes Sam's biceps. Bucky feels him, all of him.

For a few moments, it's perfect. It's absolute bliss. He feels wanted and perhaps a little treasured, and even though he's no closer to crying than he usually is, he's thrilled. It's perfect. 

And then it is very suddenly not.

Sam couldn't have known. 

Bucky feels Sam's hand slide into his hair, curling into a fist and before he even starts pulling—even if it wasn't going to hurt—Bucky zips out of reality faster than a bullet.

When he comes to, he's sitting on the floor, panting, hands clenched around his t-shirt.

"—kay, there you are. Hey…" Sam's kneeling in front of him, "Hey, can you hear me?" 

Bucky nods. He's clammy and cold and shivering. 

"What was it? What'd I do?" 

"Nothing. You didn't—you didn't do—"

"Buck. Hey, look, this is new. For both of us, yeah? I need to know." he says quietly apologetic. 

Does he, though? Does Sam really need to know just how Brock fucked him up? Is it really necessary to dredge out all these tainted shreds he hides inside?

"Was it because I got hard?" Sam asks, now even softer, "I'm—"

"The hair. My hair," Bucky blurts out before Sam even gets to apologize for having normal bodily functions. He never needs to apologize for a thing. 

Sam frowns. He frowns because he doesn't know. 

"Please, Buck," he pleads when Bucky's gaze fades off over his shoulder. Sam's hand on his wrist brings him back. "Please?" 

Bucky looks at him; he takes a deep, deep breath and exhales slowly, just like Doctor Potts showed him. Sam seems to know what he's doing because he nods encouragingly and exhales with Bucky. God, he's a fucking mess.

"He'd drag me around like a ragdoll," Bucky says quickly before he loses his nerve, "Hair was an easy way to—he uhm—he pulled—"

"Okay." Sam sits down beside him on the floor, puts his arm around Bucky's shoulder, "Alright. Got it." He kisses Bucky's temple. "Got it."

Sam holds him until the shivers and embarrassment subside. 

"I know you'd never do that, Sam. It's not because I think—" 

"You're right, baby. I wouldn't. I'd never touch you unless you wanted me to." Sam snuggles closer, rests his cheek against Bucky's head, "No hair business until you say so. And I hope you do, 'coz you got some great-ass hair." 

Bucky snorts, "Deal."

"Alright." 

Bucky feels Sam smiling. 

They'll get this right eventually, he knows. For now, the closeness of Sam's body is enough; his heart beating against Bucky's skin is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you guys!! thanks for reading!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -nothing but absolute fluff and sweetness here.  
> -this is actually just a short intermediate chapter before we get to the final one, hope y'all enjoy it anyway!  
> -also, this one gets kind of steamy :)

Sam meets with Okoye for cleft palate training just as his shift starts that morning. He fucks it up about a million times. She makes him redo it each one of those times while sipping on a chai tea in the corner, scrolling through her phone. Probably texting his sister and then sends him off with two arms full of study material.

After that, he makes his way down to the E.R and starts his rounds, which is surprisingly uneventful despite Sam staying late to help the guards safely escort four recovering inmates into the transport vans.

Among them, Brock, who is his regular, charming self with crude comments that quickly switch to pleading and nice talk, then back to violence, and Sam shudders to think that this is the type of shit Bucky put up with for fucking years. Sam's only a few hours in and he's ready to put his fist through a goddamn wall.

So by the time Sam wraps it up and watches the vans depart with inexplicable relief, he's properly tired. All he craves is a warm meal and an even warmer body to snuggle into. The trip home couldn't have been longer, but when he drags his feet over the threshold, Bucky is upside down on the couch ordering take out already. 

With his head hanging off the edge and his feet flung over the back, he shoots a wide grin at Sam, and instantly half the exhaustion Sam's been walking around with, dissipates. "Well, hey, handsome." 

"That was a goddamn long shift, huh?" Bucky says, scrolling his way through pizzas and burgers and milkshakes. 

Sam leans down to kiss him, "Miss J'Kuwali apparently doesn't take it easy on you, even if she's fucking your sister. Ug." He's forcing his brain not to try and form some mental image of that and realizes if it becomes serious, he'll have to get used to having Okoye at his family gatherings.

Bucky laughs, it's beautiful, he's gorgeous. Sam likes the image of him relaxed and comfortable and smiling. It's a far cry from the way he was when they first met. 

"Sushi?" He turns the phone to Sam.

Sam shrugs off his coat and shoes and flops down on the couch with Bucky, not upside down, but low enough to count as lying down. 

"Yeah, fuck, why not." he says.

"Sweet!" 

Bucky places the order and then gets himself upright and snuggled under Sam's arm. His head's tilted just enough to allow some necking, and after this long day, there's nothing Sam wants to do more. 

Bucky's lips meet his tenderly and warm and Sam's a little thrown off, he always is when they get close. It always feels like it's the very first time he's ever kissed anyone in his life. He didn't even feel like this when Addy in middle school planted one on him in the middle of the football field. And he hasn't felt like this since the last time Riley kissed him. 

"Why are you staring at me?" Bucky says in a lazy, whispered tone, "It's creepy." 

Sam leans in and kisses him properly. "Just," he says when he pulls away. 

Bucky smiles up at him, his eyes crinkle in the corners. He brings his hand up to stroke Sam's cheek, and his face goes all serious for a fleeting moment, and then he smiles again. "Kiss me, Wilson." he breathes.

Sam wishes he knew what Bucky was thinking just then so he can make him think it as often as possible if it means he always looks at Sam like that.

They kiss long and hard this time. Bucky's arm is resting over Sam's stomach, fingers toying with the hem of Sam's shirt. He feels a low heat start to simmer in his gut, and it's not like he means to pop a fucking boner whenever they're close; it just happens. 

He's trying to will it down the way he usually does, but there's no angling his hips away this time because he's sitting and Bucky is right next to him, and he's wearing scrubs, so it's pretty obvious. 

Sam slips his finger between their lips, "Wait," he says, a little breathless now.

Bucky still chases after his mouth, "Why?" 

"I'm… it's uh, just gotta…" But Bucky's lips trace down his jaw, then teases at his ear, then finds a soft spot in his neck and starts sucking. "Barnes, shit... what…" 

Sam's body goes stupidly boneless, his head falls back, and Bucky sucks harder.

"Tell me, and I'll stop," Bucky says, and then his hand slides down, down, down…

Sam thinks he's teleported to a different realm probably. Bucky cups him through his scrubs and squeezes. 

"Say stop," he whispers shakily as a reminder. 

Sam shakes his head, "Please don't—oh god—don't stop."

Bucky kisses Sam and buries his face in Sam's neck again. He'll have a string of purple marks littering his skin the next day, but he's not even close to caring, wants it even. 

He's biting into his lip to shut himself up, thinking that if he makes a sound, he'll scare Bucky off and ruin everything. They've been tip-toeing around this for a while, and so Sam's every nerve is blazing right now, so eager to feel Bucky's hands on him, he barely keeps from shivering.

But then a hand slips down Sam's boxers, wraps around him, skin on skin, and he loses any lucid thoughts he'd been holding onto. 

"Oh fuck… shit… Buck… baby." 

"Yeah?" Bucky breathes against his skin, damp and hot and on fire.

"Baby..." he moans again, uselessly, pleasure shooting like fireworks up his spine. 

"I got you," Bucky says, working him over in long, slow strokes, soft and tender nips at his throat, again and again, and again. He rolls his fist over the tip and squeezes, then speeds up and licks a stripe up Sam's neck, pressing himself closer to Sam's body.

And then, stuttering closer to the edge, Sam gasps, "Close, close, close… I'm gonna—" 

When he comes, it's a full-body burn, a tingly numbness from his head to his toes, a deep pressure released in his gut, and Bucky's breathless mouth against his skin.

Bucky looks up at him a little shocked, a strange mixture of emotions on his face. But then he smiles like the sun breaking through thick grey clouds and kisses Sam again. 

And Sam would have pulled him into his lap right then and see how far they get this time, but the goddamn doorbell dings and rips them from the raptures of each other.

"Fuck," Sam laughs, head falling back. He cleans up and tucks himself back in his scrubs when Bucky stands to get the door. 

Bucky gives him a little grin, a quick wink, and somehow manages to look equal parts coy and devilish, and Sam can hardly take it.

They unpack the sushi on the coffee table, distributing chopsticks and soy sauce packets and cracking open their juice before tucking in. 

"You put your leave in for this weekend?" Bucky asks, piling his California roll with wasabi.

Sam nods, "To meet the Barneses? 'Course I did. You?" 

"Uh, huh," Bucky says, "Becs can't wait." 

"Hm. Nervous," Sam admits, chewing. And validly so. He's the first guy they'll meet after that piece of shit, and he knows whatever happened back then ripped them apart. So like, no pressure. Still, he's kind of excited because it means so much to Bucky, the way his face sparks to life when he talks about his family makes Sam miss his own. 

Bucky shakes his head, "Nah," he swallows and wipes his mouth, "She already loves you." and he leans sideways to kiss Sam's cheek, a tender linger against his skin.

Sam could totally get used to this. It makes all the horrible days at work so worth it, he'd take a hundred bad days for one of these where he gets to sit quietly and eat with Bucky, chuckling at something, those blissful moments when they lock eyes and everything around them just seems to fade out. 

It has been a long, long time since Sam felt anything like this. There'd been a part of him that was scared to let go of Riley and give into it. He'd been afraid of what it meant for Riley's memory to let go, afraid that he'd forget, worried that he'd hurt Riley by moving on. But he knows now that it's not letting go. 

In his heart, Sam knows Riley is happy for him. He's somewhere up there smiling at them, probably laughing at the stupid grin that is now permanently plastered on Sam's face because of Bucky. He knows Riley is rooting for them. He knows he will love Riley forever after. 

His heart is big enough for two. 

Bucky looks sideways and catches him thumbing a little wetness from the corner of his eye. Without a word, he reaches over and folds his hand over Sam's while they finish their food. He just knows, Sam doesn't have to say a thing. 

Sam guesses it's much the same for both of them. Love finding its way back into a battlefield is a bittersweet victory after all. 

After dinner, they're bundled up on the couch watching Pirates of the Caribbean that Bucky has somehow never seen but finds hilariously amusing despite Sam trying to educate him on the series. But his legs are draped over Sam's and their fingers are laced together, so Sam lets his foolery slide. 

At one point the sea goddess says to her long lost lover,  _ "And what of your fate, Davy Jones?" _ just as Davy Jones starts walking away. And this is Sam's favorite part- with his crawling tentacle beard and hardened, soulless eyes he tells Calypso,  _ "My heart will always belong to you." _ And she smiles.

"Huh," Bucky says, and his eyes crinkle up around the corners, "Huh!" 

"What? You got a problem with love now?" Sam chirps, poking his leg because he's a wise ass. 

"No," Bucky says, "I mean if you're into this kind of thing—" he pretends that his fingers are wiggling tentacles protruding from his nose, and aims them at Sam, making slurping noises because he's also ridiculous. 

"Stop!" Sam starts cackling, trying to keep him away, "They're—stop!!—this is a  _ love story,  _ goddamnit!" Bucky just comes closer with his slurping noises, until he's tickling Sam's arm. 

"You think she sucks the tentacles?"

"No!"

Sam's a giggling puddle with Bucky half on top of him. He worms himself off the couch and leaves Bucky there, laughing by himself on his back. 

"That's an epic love story, Calypso and Davy Jones, you just ruined an  _ epic love story _ , congratulations!" he says from the kitchen, pouring a glass of water. 

Bucky slurps. 

Sam can't fucking stand it. He's so goddamn in love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't believe we're almost done, guys! thank you for reading!


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end guys! Hope you guys enjoy this, hope it's a satisfactory wrap up.  
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting and keeping me fueled to finish this story.  
> Please leave me a comment if you want to, I'd love to know what you all thought!  
> Remember, you can reach me here too: [glittercake](https://glittercake.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Lots of love, Samantha.

Bucky wakes up Saturday morning with the light still struggling through the night sky, the loft drenched in low, muted orange, the bed a warm nest, and inside his body is stretched out beside Sam.

Even in sleep, their hands are clasped, curled loosely to Sam's chest.

Bucky looks at him, so gorgeously peaceful, his lips parted, and the pillow a little wet beneath his mouth corner. Bucky laughs quiet and fond and wiggles closer under the covers. From so close, he can see Sam's long, curling lashes and how they cast perfect, half-moon shadows on the apples of his cheeks. His lips full and soft as silk when Bucky leans in to kiss him awake.

"Hey," he whispers, his fingertips tracing down Sam's cheek, "Gotta wake up."

Sam makes a disgruntled noise. "No. Why," he mumbles but leans into Bucky's touch, nuzzling then humming his contentment as Bucky's hand slides to the back of his neck.

Bucky smiles, "We got a plane to catch."

Slowly, lazily, Sam's hands slip around Bucky's waist just about squashing him into a hug. His sleep-warm body is heaven; Bucky can't help but give himself over to the feeling.

They hadn't done anything since the other night on the couch, but not for lack of trying. They'd just been working weird shifts and long hours and getting home too tired and depleted to even think about anything. Besides, the moment their heads hit the pillow, they'd been carried off to sleep quicker than a blink.

But now, they've just awoken from a deep, peaceful sleep, and Bucky is ready to finish what they started,

As he closes his eyes, letting the bliss of Sam's body close to his take over, he feels himself growing hard. Sam feels it too, sucks in a breath and blinks up at Bucky with a million questions floating in his bronzite eyes.

And Bucky doesn't have the words, even though he should, there's still something that keeps him from saying it. So all he does is rock forward into Sam's thigh, making them both whimper out desperately.

Sam gets it though, like all the times before that, Bucky couldn't find the words, Sam gets it. His palm spreads out on Bucky's lower back, pushing them close, he leans up to kiss him, dirty and sloppy then rests his forehead down against Bucky's as he grinds shamelessly into him.

Bucky kisses back with all the fervor he feels coursing through him, the little sparks that make him come alive in places that had long since forgotten what the warmth of someone feels like.

"Sam…" he whispers, "I—" because he needs more because he's burning up and coming apart in Sam's arms.

And then Sam touches him.

It's just a gentle cup, testing the waters while their lips slide together, but Bucky lets out a sound like a cry into Sam's mouth, and luckily feels him smile instead of moving away. He dips his hand into Bucky's p.j bottoms and starts jerking him off.

He's so hard it's almost aching, but soon his body gives way, and all he feels is unimaginable pleasure, he's wet and ready almost embarrassingly fast and can't help the quiet moans that follow now as Sam brings him off easily.

Bucky grabs on tight to Sam's shoulder and tries to kiss him at least, but his mouth falls slack as his orgasm consumes him whole. Sam lets go of Bucky and shifts slightly, and Bucky wonders why until he feels the quick tugging movements and realizes Sam's jerking himself off too now.

"Jesus, come here," Bucky says, diving in for Sam's mouth, kissing him just as he comes as well.

Sam lies there panting, eyes closed for a few minutes with Bucky wrapped around him as they slowly dwindle back down to earth.

Bucky blinks idly, happily, just breathing Sam in, feeling fingers circle feather-light on his back.

"I mean, we can meet my family some other time," Bucky says, only partly joking. He'd hate to move right now; he hates the thought of Sam's hands leaving his body.

"Ha!" Sam gets up way faster than anyone who just came that hard should, and slaps Bucky's thigh, "Let's move, Flower Boy! Dibs on the shower!" and he jogs off to the bathroom.

"You know, you touched my dick, I'm sure we get to shower together now," Bucky says from the bed, dragging himself up. He's sticky and gross, but it's so goddamn worth it, especially when Sam grins at him from the other side of the room and drops his pants.

They shower, eventually, and grab their bags a few seconds shy of being late.

Bucky hasn't been nervous about this until now.

Now, he's terrified.

* * *

Sam must notice something- Bucky's sweaty palms or the distracted responses, because just before they board Sam FaceTimes Sarah.

"See, I knew when I saw you two that day. I just knew it," Sarah says when she sees they're traveling together, "So y'all are dating now? Like you're boyfriends?" Her voice goes a little sing-songy when she says boyfriends and Bucky's cheeks glow hot.

Sam rolls his eyes, angling the screen so Bucky is in it too, "Why you gotta be so annoying?"

Then she squeals, "Aw! Look at his face now!! See!"

And before Sam gets another word in, the phone wobbles, and Sarah calls over her shoulder, "Ma! Sam's got another white boyfriend!"

From somewhere behind her a woman's deep voice comes, "A what now?" and then a lady who Bucky assumes is Sam's mom comes walking toward Sarah with a long thin paintbrush in her hand. She's wearing a loose shirt with dried and fresh paint stains splattered all over; the sleeves are rolled up, showing off her wrists adorned with gold bangles.

"Look!" Sarah says, "His name's Bucky," angling the screen, so both she and her mom fit. Sam sighs deeply disgruntled.

"Bucky? Hold still," she says to Sarah, lifting her specs from the chain around her neck and putting it on. She just squints at them, "Samuel, where are you?"

"Airport, ma. This is Bucky."

"Hi, Bucky. Are you at the airport?? That's the airport, Sam. Where you going?"

Bucky waves, "Hi, Mrs. Wilson."

"To meet Bucky's parents, ma," Sam says.

"Why ain't he meeting your parents? Where do they stay? When last did you visit, Sam? You know Gerry finished building that goddamn deck, and he won't come inside anymore, just sits there all day making everyone mimosas. Even the neighbors. He could use the company."

"I know, ma. We'll plan a trip, alright?"

"I guess now Mrs. Knight's daughter is off the table, huh?"

Sam groans, exasperated, letting his head fall back, and this seems to amuse Sarah and her mom; they tap each other's arms, looking absolutely wicked.

"I'm just teasing, baby. Gideon's coming over end of September, come see us then."

"Yeah, ma, sounds good."

Mrs. Wilson lowers her glasses, "It's nice to meet you, Bucky."

"Likewise, ma'am."

Then Sam's mom stands and paints a streak of yellow on Sarah's cheek before scuttling off into the same direction she came from.

Sarah doesn't seem bothered. She just grins at them, then cackles out loud when Sam flips her off for calling their mom on him.

From somewhere in the house, a man shouts, "Peach Mimosas!! Come get it!!"

Then Sarah shoots up, starts jogging, "Gonna get white girl wasted! Bye!! Hey Gerry!! Sammy's got a new—" and hangs up.

Sam shakes his head, looking fondly at the screen where Sarah had been. When he turns to look at Bucky, he seems almost shy.

"One sister down," he says, "one to go." slipping his palm into Bucky's as they head for the boarding gates.

Bucky sucks in a breath, a little calmer now, and blows it out through balled cheeks, "Let's go, _boyfriend."_

Sam snorts, looks like he's about to kiss him just there but doesn't. Instead, he pulls Bucky close and swings an arm around him, their luggage rolling along behind them.

"Yeah," Sam says with his mouth fixed in a grin as he looks ahead, "Boyfriend."

* * *

The house looks different. They painted. The old, double brown garage doors are now white, and the wild shrubs alongside the driveway have been trimmed into a neat rectangle.

But it still has his and Becca's little footprints etched into the cement with his mom's squiggly heart around it. He remembers how they used to argue about whose foot grew the quickest each weekend they measured. He remembers the grey cement colored with oversized chalks, the trucks and barbies, and scooters scattered all over, Archie and Mike from across the road coming over for lemonade and how they all sat on the curb drinking it.

Bucky puts his luggage down beside him and takes a deep, steadying breath.

And, regrettably, he remembers the last time he stood right here, too. Brock had been at his side instead of Sam, screaming at his mother, cursing at Becca. And Bucky let him.

Brock told him he doesn't need them, told him they didn't want him to be happy and tossed his phone out the car window on the way back to the airport. Again, Bucky let him because he was angry too, he was in love, he was happy, and they didn't like it.

So, the last time he stood here with suitcases in his hands, he had parted from his family with teary eyes and fiery words before being dragged into Brock's car.

"How we doing?" Sam says, rolling his bag from the Uber to where Bucky is standing.

Bucky unclenches his hand and looks at the light luster of sweat on his palm before wiping them on his jeans. "Fine." he gives Sam a weak smile, then takes his hand and heads toward the front door.

There's a little glass pane in the middle of the door, and before he even gets to ring the doorbell, Becca comes walking out of the kitchen and stops when she sees him.

She looks just like she did in the Greece photograph, long brown hair, and her eyes as deep blue as the dress she wore. She only pauses for a second before jogging toward the door and swinging it open.

"Buck," she whispers, her face twisting into a mess, "Oh my god, hi," she says and throws her arms around his neck.

Bucky's words fail him; he just holds her close and takes in the comforting scent of home that had been missing from him for so long.

She pulls back and looks at him, wiping tears from her cheeks, "Oh, wow. I'm sorry. Wow, look at you." her hand comes up to linger on his jaw. She sees the scar below his eye that Brock had left there and brushes her thumb over it tenderly. Her face does something strange, like she's chewing up emotion while forcing a smile to remain in place. He knows that feeling all too well.

"It's okay now," he tells her, putting his hand over hers.

She starts crying again, nodding, then catches sight of Sam, also subtly wiping up tears. "Oh shit!" She says, straightening herself up, "I'm so sorry. How rude!" she immediately sticks her hand out to Sam, "You're Sam! Oh god, I'm so excited to meet you!"

He smiles at her, like a million sunrises and endless sparkling stars, and Bucky's heart swoops so low in his stomach he thinks he might pass out. Becca sees it too, and then the tortured look from before gives way to something sweet and fond as if she's able to feel exactly how happy Bucky is.

"I sure am," Sam says and instead of shaking her hand, he goes in for a hug.

She squeezes him tight, like a thank you, like something utterly grateful and reverent, and closes her eyes.

"I'm Becca.”

They break apart and Sam holds her gently by the shoulder, “I know, he can’t stop talking about you.” Sam cocks his head to Bucky.

She laughs, the teary greeting now fading, “Same. He says you play piano?”

“Sure do,” Sam lights up, “You too?”

Becca shakes her head, looking at Bucky, “No, but we’ve got a Grand just standing around for decoration, old family heirloom. I bet you can put it to work, huh?”

Sam rubs his hands together like someone stumbling upon a treasure, “Damn straight!” he says.

She makes a delighted, squealing sound and shows them inside. Then she turns around, "Mommy! Look who's here!"

She scoots their bags into the lounge. The house looks kind of the same, a few things might have moved or have been replaced, but it's all just as he remembers it.

Down the hall, he can see the backyard too.

He reaches for Sam's hand and finds him close behind, looking a little more nervous than he'd like, so Bucky leans over and presses a quick kiss to Sam's cheek. Sam's hand tightens in his, a comforting pressure.

His mom comes in from the patio, already cupping her hand over her mouth, face also twisting into a sob. She's a little grey now, and the lines on her face have deepened. She hugs him and pets his hair and repeats his name over and over again and is genuinely happy to see him. All the nerves had been for nothing. She's just as delighted to meet Sam and asks him about a million questions, hooking her arm into Sam’s as they all make their way outside.

"I missed you, sweetheart," she tells Bucky later, when they're standing around the grill with Becca's boyfriend, "I'm glad you're home."

He puts his arm around her, kissing the top of her hair, "Me too, ma," he says.

Sam and Daniel hit it off so well that for most of the afternoon the two are practically inseparable. Meanwhile Becca tells him about her new job in the city and his mom shows him what she's been up to since retiring. And despite the guilt, he feels for missing out in the first place his heart is full. His family is happy and whole again.

And they're absolutely taken by Sam, especially when he plays the piano for them. His mom tells him twice how handsome Sam is, Becca has been laughing for an hour straight at Sam's jokes, even Daniel is totally starry-eyed about Bucky's… well... his boyfriend. He's almost jealous.

But every once in a while, Sam looks over and waves at Bucky with this cute little grin and those eyes glinting behind long lashes in the midday sun, and Bucky's entire world cants sideways. He's still not sure how he got here, how he ever got so lucky to end up in the same hospital as Sam.

Sometimes it seems completely inconceivable that he even escaped the feverish hell he'd been trapped in for so long. It feels like he made it all up somehow like it can't possibly be real.

But it is, because they're sitting quietly under the big oak tree, their backs against the picnic table, watching Becca and his mom getting lunch ready in the kitchen, and Daniel chasing two golden labs around the lawn.

Their arms are pressed close, and their knees bump together, their faces turned to the soft baking sun. Bucky's looking out over the big backyard that has been a daydream for the longest time.

Deep inside him, between the groves of his heart and the very flesh that binds him, he feels content. Parts of him that have been in constant turmoil are now resting. It is quiet within.

The wind rustles quietly when Sam turns his head to Bucky. Very much out of nowhere, he says, "I'm in love with you." He pauses when Bucky looks at him. His shoulders go up in a small, nonchalant shrug, "Just wanted you to know."

Then he looks away as if he hadn't said anything at all, as if he thinks Bucky won't say it back, and he's not planning on waiting for it either.

Just a simple, stated fact like the ocean is deep, and the sky is blue.

Which is outright ridiculous. Because the sky is not just blue when Sam Wilson stands underneath it, it is vivid, shimmering shades of indigo and crystal; it is the brightest even when it storms.

And Sam doesn't know. He has no idea that he is the silver lining.

Bucky slides his hand into Sam's. Their fingers curl together. When he looks over, Sam wears a peaceful smile, and his eyes are closed while he soaks up the sun.

He tells Sam, "I love you, too." And watches the smile grow and grow until it is a fully-fledged, gap-toothed grin.

"Hells, yeah," Sam says, happily satisfied.

And so he sits in a big backyard with a tree swing. For real this time. The pink dollhouse is now a toolshed, and there are no more plastic dinosaurs, but there's a girl called Becca, and a boy named Sam, and his heart is as happy as it was running through those sprinklers as a kid.

Finally.

* * *

** Three years later:  **

Bucky's already waiting at the loft when Sam comes home a little after nine that evening.

He stops dead when he sees the fuss Bucky made, which is kind of silly now that he thinks about it. The rose petals, the candles lit along the floor to where he's leaning against the piano, the note, the rings, and his stupid nervous face. Maybe he should have dialed it down.

"What the hell, Barnes?" Sam says, comically fond, "This is _not_ Netflix and Chill."

Bucky points at the laptop, "Oh, I got Netflix, honey, and I'm chilling." which he is so very casually doing, trying not to freak out.

"Ha!" Sam snorts at him, takes his bag and jacket off, and heads over to the coffee table to where Bucky's computer stands open and ready with a series to binge, a folded note, and beside it a small, black velvet box.

Sam picks up the note as if something's about to jump out at him like a Jack-in-the-box, and unfolds the paper.

"Go on, read it, Dr. Wilson."

The note reads:

> _Didn't know when I met you that it would take everything inside me to stay away from you. Not to want to breathe your air, kiss all the scattered freckles on your skin. Watch you in unfiltered sunlight, the way you exist, the way you look when you're happy. I didn't know it would become my sustenance to watch you smile in your sleep._
> 
> _But here we are, a couple of years later and you make my coffee exactly the way I love it because you love me more._
> 
> _Here we are, holding each other's beating hearts like Calypso did Davy Jones'._
> 
> _And I've never loved anything more than I do you, sweetheart._
> 
> _The sweetest of them all._
> 
> _Let's make it forever. What do you say?_

Sam's face crumbles, a happy twist of tears and smiles and complete adoration. He says yes, yes, yes, a thousand times over until Bucky comes and kisses him quiet.

This love is in his bones, down deep in the core of him, and it burns like a lighthouse in the dark.

Forever the beacon that he looks to when his seas become wild currents of doubt.

He is anchored here. This is home.

**THE END**


End file.
